MCRT An Introduction
by AllForLenya
Summary: This is my first fanfic entry ever! It is loosely based on the X-Men, though it uses other aspects seen in Marvel comics, namely, SHIELD. I am unable to provide a good summary of what it is with a character limit, but will say it is about what an X-Man might do other than save the world from evil mutants. A better summary is provided inside. Please read and review! Story COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _As I said in the summary, this adaptation of the Marvel Universe is quite different from the one we're all used to. To be clear, I do not own Marvel or any of its characters and do not make any profit from this, or any, story. To give you all a larger and more complete summary of what has been changed in this adaptation, I will do my best to elaborate a bit on the makings of this story. _

_Realism is my obligation. I know that all comics are bounded by and in fiction, with the optic blasts and all, but I chose to take such things and force them into a reality that was more 'believable', to me than what was previously offered by Marvel (no offense intended, of course). That being said, in this world, prior to the creation of SHIELD after WWII, and the genetic manipulation of Captain America before his time in ice, both mutants and 'superhereos' were thought of as mythical creatures, monsters, pantheons and legends. After Captain America seemingly died and became a legend himself, this belief that anything superior to or differing from what was thought to be human still did not dissipate much until the late seventies and early eighties when genetics and DNA were getting their time under the microscope, so to speak. With scientists like Dr. Hank McCoy, Dr. Moira MacTaggert, and visionaries like Charles Xavier, Tony Stark, Nick Fury and even Erik Lehnsherr, the term 'mutant' was coined and superheroes were born. _

_SHIELD has five main priorities, started by the United States government as an answer to perceived threats that no other organization wanted to handle or had the means to handle. These priorities are: 'alien' threats, (Roswell would happen soon); magical threats; mutant, meta, or super-powered threats (the thought at the time was perhaps other Captain America's might exist); would-be world conquerors and threats of a technical nature (think Iron Man or Doom). Once Nick Fury took command of SHIELD, in the 21st century, he was smart enough to get in bed, not literally, with Tony Stark, his money and his brains, which led to the marvelous idea of The Avengers._

_After the Magneto Incident, that took place in our nation's capital, Fury and Stark took command of the first responders, a little known team cutely named the 'X-Men'. SHIELD and The Avengers incorporated Xavier's dream of mutant equality into government jobs. The responsibilities of being an 'Avenger', Tony's team of super-powered SHIELD agents, include the priorities of a non-powered SHIELD agent. They basically span from protecting the world at large from' foes no single hero could withstand' to community outreach in the Morlock Tunnels that Xavier would be proud of. _

_On Xavier's property, Tony built The Rotunda, one of a few major SHIELD headquarters, only for powered individuals. On this same campus holds The Avengers' Academy, a training facility for powered individuals looking to become Avengers. Nearby, is Xavier's school: The Xavier Institute and its younger counterpart; The Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters. Here is the setting for this story..._

**Chapter One**

When a child is of school age, four or five, on the occasion that he or she might say something inappropriate about another person, the parent of said child usually tells them that all people are different. They come in many shapes, sizes and colors and that is okay.

When a person enters The Xavier Institute, or The Avengers' Academy, they are told basically the same thing, except with mutated humans instead of baseline humans. Mutants come in many shapes, sizes and colors and that is okay. The only difference is the colors, shapes and sizes vary much more than with baselines. And not everyone is okay with that, yet. Someday, though, everyone will be, hopes those who are employed by Xavier, or S.H.I.E.L.D.

It was unseasonably cold for mid-November, and that alone made for an inevitable bad day as far as Remy LeBeau was concerned. The weatherman predicted ice today and possibly snow. What was even worse, though, was that he was also pretty certain he was working on a cold. His throat was scratchy and he had a headache. And of course, because lady luck was taking a vacation – maybe she was getting sick, too – he was going to spend the entire damn day in the cold, damp sewers. He sighed heavily as he sat down in the briefing room for the usual nine o'clock meeting. He checked his sporting watch and noted that he technically was not late; because it read 8:59. He knew well enough by now to leave his valuable watches at home when visiting the sewers.

Clay Quartermain, his S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent counterpart, was seated next to him, as per usual, and he said, "Cutting it close, aren't you, Louisiana?" He didn't use the nickname often, really only to irritate his Louisiana-born teammate and only because Remy had started it by calling him 'Texas' and 'Tex'.

"What's Scott gonna do? Fire me?" Remy said sarcastically. Remy knew all too well Scott Summers would never fire him because Remy had the, perhaps unfortunate, position of leading the MCRT, standing for the Mutant Community Research Team, which nobody else in their right mind would want to do. Yes, the employees of S.H.I.E.L.D. hoped prejudice would cease to exist, but not everyone wanted to do the dirty work it required.

Clay smiled at Remy's sense of job security and his arrogance. Though Clay would admit he was probably the same way when he was in his twenties, he saw it from a completely different light than he did twenty years ago. His oldest boy, Travis, had turned twenty one in March and now thought he knew everything. And though Remy was older and leagues more mature in many ways than Travis, the parallels between them made working under the arrogant New Orleans Saints fan quite an interesting experience.

"Only if he went crazy," Clay reassured him needlessly.

Scott entered then and used the PowerPoint presentation he used every day, making changes to the events but leaving the background the exact same boring charcoal. At least he did a good job keeping things quick, and Remy and Clay were able to make good time on their way to mutant district number one in the city, where they would find their quarry.

"Well, your call, boss," Clay said, strapping an unnecessary amount of ammunition and artillery to his belt. It amused him to call Remy 'boss'. "You think we're gonna need the tranqs?"

"You know, I liked you better when you called me 'sir'," Remy replied, shaking his head at the amount of guns Clay thought he might need. When they were first introduced, Remy had found the 'yes, sir, no, sir' routine odd, if only because Clay was older than he was. "Why the hell bother with tranqs, when you're bringing enough guns to supply a cartel?"

"It's my sworn duty to protect you," Clay said, and then added, "Sir." He did end up taking the tranquilizers; in fact, he would never leave without them, but just wanted to goad Remy.

"I have no intention of doing anything more but question the Green Clan. If it comes to guns then I haven't done my job." The Green Clan, more of a genetic family, really, was suspected of trading their mostly worthless DNA as a crude form of MGH for a much higher grade of MGH that came from, supposedly, a mutant with fire-type abilities.

"What makes you think they'll just up and tell you they've done it? Without the use of scare tactics."

"Because I can be very convincing," Remy said, walking down the stairway to the subway on 116th street. To be honest, and Clay knew it, Remy couldn't stand the thought of guns. He found them unnecessary vessels of violence. Nevertheless, he was a good shot, but had never fired at anything more than paper targets, and that was only because he had to during his Academy days.

Remy knew that the reason for the drug trade was partly, if not mostly, because the Green Clan undoubtedly suspected the MGH they received would better prepare them for the winter months ahead. And it was about to get a helluva lot colder in New York City. It was time to stock up for the winter; except these squirrels didn't store nuts. Remy didn't like to know it was their reality, but he had been doing this job for too long now to think it was anything different. What made matters worse was, at the last census, the Green Clan had twenty three children under the age of sixteen.

They continued walking towards the furthest ticket counter, nearest the restrooms, ignoring the looks from the lunch crowd, before turning into a small door that had once been used as an entrance to an aqueduct maintenance shed. Now, it was one of the entrances to the Morlock world, the one closest to where the Green Clan lived.

"Why do they call themselves 'The Green Clan' anyways?" Clay asked, his eyes moving about, not missing anything, including the small, but owlish eyes peering at him in the near darkness.

"Green is their surname," Remy replied, feeling as if the dampness of the old aqueduct line had already penetrated his many layers. He cleared his throat, irritated because of the rampant mold and probably the cold he was getting. His nose was beginning to feel stuffed up, too, but that could be mold-related as well. He would never understand how these people could live like this, which was part of the reason he kept coming back here – to try to change their minds. He continued to Clay, "They don't refer to themselves as a family, though, for some reason, and chose 'clan' instead."

"Oh, that makes sense, "Clay said, sarcastically.

"I think it's their way of forming a hierarchy amongst themselves. That way, the leadership positions don't automatically go to the fathers or the elders, but whoever has the best interests of the 'clan' in mind."

Today, that person was Remy. He and Clay found the three chipping slashes of green paint indicating they were in 'green clan' territory now. An elder member, whose name escaped Remy at the time, stared with open hatred as they walked towards the half-wood and half-cloth lean to that served as one of the homes. Clay muttered under his breath, "Easy now, old man. Don't make me aerate your face."

Remy didn't do more than glance at him before politely knocking on the wood part of the 'door', Remy introduced himself and asked if he could speak with 'Red'. Yes, the head of the Green Clan's name was Red.

Red came out, and Remy was always baffled how he fit his large frame into the small lean to. He crossed his arms –all four of them – and looked Remy up and down, as if he were sizing him up for a meal. And Remy wasn't short, and though Red might have been just two inches taller, he somehow seemed much, much larger. As his namesake might suggest, his skin was a mottled red color, fleshy pink in some areas and a blaring painful red in others. Also, he was covered in moles. As far as Remy knew, Red did not possess any mutant abilities, but it was his appearance that kept him hidden from society. And he was quite happy to continue doing so, no matter what Remy did or said.

Also, Red was not the least hospitable, Remy knew, and so he did not expect to be invited in or offered to sit on the half-rotted wooden benches that were strewn about. No matter, Remy, quite honestly, preferred to stand.

In a blunt tone, not bothering with any pleasantries, Red said, "Heard you wanted to talk to me from one of my kin. I don't appreciate that."

"That's right," Remy said, ignoring Red's feelings and feeling Clay bristle behind him as he undoubtedly perceived Red to be a hostile target. Remy continued calmly, "He didn't mean any harm by it, Red. He was merely concerned about the wellbeing of the clan." The informant, whose name was Dirk, was one of several younger clan members who were interested in becoming more assimilated. Thus, dealing MGH wasn't really the direction they hoped their clan would move. They, of course, were also more likely to call their 'clan' a family.

"Wellbeing?" Red said, scratching his mole-covered, dirty head. "I am the one who sees to that." He clenched two of his hands into fists and he set his stance wide, like an animal, ready to attack.

Remy knew better than to show any kind of reaction – fear, overconfidence, anything. So, he didn't. Instead, he matched moods; blunt deserved blunt. "Then I would hope you would consider another means of doing so, other than lying about the potential of your DNA and selling it. Seeing as that is against the law." He also did not talk to any of them as if they were stupid.

At the mention of his crimes, Red scratched his head hard enough to break the skin. Perhaps a nervous habit, or more likely a negative reaction to taking the unknown fire-type mutant's MGH. Remy had seen it countless times; mutants taking MGH to gain better abilities or lessen their own, only to find the MGH they chose was not complimentary to their own systems. The reactions varied from an itching rash to death, so this clan, or Red at least, was very lucky.

Remy cleared his throat, and handed Red a handkerchief. His in-the-trenches trench coat had deep pockets, and he got used to carrying lots of little things that he might need or that he might give away. Then, because he knew he had Red right where he wanted him, he said, "Do you have a watch, Red?"

Red dabbed the blood on his head with one arm and scratched at his neck with another, perhaps trying to break open the skin there as well. "Um, no. But Wallace does." Wallace was another upper member of the clan.

"Great. Tell him to set it. You have forty eight hours. I'll be back and then it's decision time. I would take that time to make sure there isn't anything I would not want to see when I come back."

Red looked at Remy's face, trying to judge the sincerity. In his heart he knew Remy was giving him a saving grace by not turning him in right then and there, and siccing that straight-faced idiot with guns on him and his clan. But in his head, Remy was threatening him and his way of life. Puffing up his chest, he said, "And what if I just don't?"

When on duty, Clay heard and saw everything. He put one hand on his preferred gun in his hip holster and the other hand on the very visible gun in his shoulder holster. And once he knew Red saw his intent, he continued to let Remy lead.

Remy said, "If you don't, Red, there won't be anyone to carry on your legacy, or at least not in these parts. The younger members will be put into foster care and those of you who I think are of age will be put into prison. Your choice, as always."

The likelihood of Remy finding suitable homes for at least twenty three physically disfigured children, some with mutant abilities was slim to none and that was something Red understood. And whether or not Remy was bluffing, it was enough for the bravado to start to deflate. "Forty eight hours you said? Wanna make it seventy two?" he tried.

"No, I don't," Remy said, and turned away, indicating he was quite finished with the conversation. "See you in two days, Red."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Clay followed Remy through the convoluted tunnels for another three and a half hours, while he visited with various other Morlock groups, families and clans. He knew enough by now which Morlocks were a threat to Remy and his wellbeing, which ones were smitten and which did not care whether they came at all.

Remy took notes, Clay suspected, of everything he saw and everything he heard in a weather-proof notebook. His penmanship, even when walking was small and neat, and always in the cursive he had to write when he was in Catholic school.

Other than the usual hateful remarks and horror stories, only one slight tragedy occurred, which was averted quickly, and by the time they surfaced, Clay's empathetic partner was in a stormy, thoughtful mood. He was always that way after leaving the tunnels of the Morlocks or the various other dilapidated dwellings the underprivileged mutants called home. But Clay figured stormy and thoughtful was better than other choice moods he had seen Remy go through.

Clay got into the driver's seat, and set out for the two and half hour drive back to Westchester. He put the heat on a gradual setting after the car was warm enough and said nothing, for the moment, regarding the wicked bite mark on Remy's thumb. He agreed with Remy on the gun issue only when children were involved and he didn't think scaring a seven year old with a gun was necessary. Thus, he used only his hands to remove the kid's jaws from Remy's wrist and hand, the wounded thumb the result. But now, as he really looked at it, and pictured the scar it would leave, he thought maybe he should have used the tranquilizer at least. Then again, that could have caused even more damage if the tranq dart caused the child to bit down.

He marveled at the ability kids these days had to multitask as Remy put his laptop on his lap and started compiling his hand-written notes onto the appropriate file forms, using mostly his right hand. At the same time, he also made some phone calls; one to his superior, another one to one of his affiliates located at Westchester and also one to an affiliate located at another S.H.I.E.L.D. facility in Florida. Travel time was an excellent time to get some paperwork done, but Clay had always thought it was better spent shaking off whatever it was you just left. Obviously, Remy thought differently.

Finally, when Remy appeared to be down to one task, Clay said, "Maybe you'd better put some iodine on that. Or better yet, get a tetanus shot."

Remy looked at his bloody thumb, and the slight teeth imprints on his wrist and the knuckles on his palm, knowing that the injury could have been much, much worse. Remy's hands were his livelihood, in direct regard to his mutant abilities, and thus, he was usually very careful. But, to be honest, his head and his throat were hurting and he wasn't paying attention to the little mutant child with an affinity for biting people that came too close to her. "Yeah, I'll have Jean look at it," he said absently, adding, "Do you think what Edith said was true?" The reason for his storminess revealed.

Clay was looking at the road in front of him, forever cautious, especially now because of the weather and for an instance he was reminded of every private conversation he'd ever had in the car with his three sons. Remy was seven years older than his Travis, but that really made no difference. The tone didn't change with age; the need for reassurance never retired. "That old bat doesn't know what she's talking about," he replied, surprisingly sternly, as if he was angry about something. When honestly, very little made him angry. Just cautious or worried. "She's been swimming around in the sewers her whole life, what the heck would she know?"

Remy, because he was nearly an expert at reading people, knew that Clay felt very protective of him. And though, when he was first assigned to him, Remy had been annoyed, he now didn't mind. "I didn't mean she knew from personal experience. But, maybe she guessed right. What will happen when we've done our job to completion?"

Clay asked for clarification. "You mean, once all the Morlocks are brought to the surface?"

"Once we've brought all the mutant communities to some sort of civilization. Then perhaps, they will be subjected to persecution because their differences will be all the more visible."

"Maybe so," Clay replied thoughtfully. "But, maybe persecution won't be as bad compared to what they've gotta deal with now. Rampant poverty, turf wars, not having their basic needs met. By bringing them to the surface, you're giving them a fresh start at least."

Outside, as if the day weren't dreary enough, the icy rain started coming down, blowing around because of the windy conditions. Remy sniffed, mulling over what Clay had just said. Clay switched on the windshield wipers, and their swishing plus the cadence of the steady little pellets drumming on the windows was like a song to go along with the companionable silence that followed.

Back in Westchester, and after dinner, Clay had a tactical training assignment and Remy had taken a voluntary position at the campus as a pole vault instructor. It was never too early for the eager to start training for a spring sport. Remy had been much like that when he was in high school and college. Still was, in many ways. So, dressed in athletic gear from head to toe, including a hat and gripping gloves, because it was so cold, he spent the hour and a half practice time going over the proper stance and posture he had perfected years ago. He had always been very strict on how he managed his physical activity, even when he was too young to realize what he was doing. He was fastidious in keeping his body forever in top performance. Not to mention, it was actually something he enjoyed. And so, despite the cold, and the griping sounds of eighteen year olds whining when he told them to do something over again, he allowed himself to forget about the sewers and poor people and the tremendous responsibilities he had, for the most part, given to himself.

But after a quick, hot shower, he returned to his desk and reality. The people who frequented the bull pen after dinner hours were mostly quiet, the ringing of phones usually the most disruptive. It was also rare to see an Academy student, and thus, it was easier to catch up on work without them bothering anyone. Except that he couldn't concentrate on account of his still thumping head and his raw throat. And now his nose was runny, too. He blamed the icy rain, though logically, he knew weather did not cause such things.

Caught up in his own misery, he did not notice Clay's return. The desk directly across from his was Clay's, but it had yet to take on the all-consuming, lived-in appearance that most people's desks did. Including his own, most days. Clay's desk was very militaristic and neat as a pin. His voice startled Remy from his somewhat self-centered thoughts. "Hey, thought you would have gone home by now."

Remy looked up, and replied, "I might have said the same thing." Clay's commute home was nearly two hours away, as far away from the city and Suburbia as he could get.

"I had that tactical training assignment," Clay said as he sat down and moved the mouse to awaken his computer.

"Oh, that's right. I remember you saying so." He turned away from his own computer and Clay then to sneeze into cupped hands. "Excuse me," he muttered, sniffling.

"Bless you," Clay said, distractedly.

"Thank you. You're going home now?" Remy asked.

"I've got a couple of emails I gotta send out. Won't do it at home," Clay said. "Or I should say 'can't' do it at home." Clay was typing away as he talked, causing him to seem a tad detached.

"Why not?" Remy asked, either not noticing or not caring that he didn't have Clay's full attention.

"That's right," Clay said with a small smile, barely glancing up, "you've never had the experience of trying to write like a grown up with an eleven year old telling you about their day non-stop." He paused and added, "That and Bridget doesn't like it." Bridget was his wife. A beautiful, sensible woman who knew how to make damn good barbeque and always spoke her mind, but always, of course, in the good ol' bless-your-heart Texas style.

Remy smiled back, and might have made that cracking whip sound that so many unmarried men thought was funny, but ended up sneezing instead.

"Bless you," Clay said as Remy responded with another sneeze.

"You got a cold?" Clay asked him, figuring he probably did. He didn't have to be partnered with Remy for long to realize the poor kid caught everything that went around. And he had noticed the throat clearings and sniffles.

Remy cleared his throat and shrugged. "Don't know yet. Probably."

"My youngest has a cold," Clay replied, just now remembering and felt a bit bad that he had forgotten. "Might be I brought it in with me."

"Well, thanks for that," Remy said sarcastically, with a sniff.

Clay laughed and shut down his computer, finished already with his emails. Perhaps, he was a bit better at multitasking than he let on. But then again, he wrote emails opposite of how he talked – short and to the point. "You're welcome. I'll let you get back to work then, finish that up so you can get on home."

"Night, Quartermain," Remy said.

"G'night."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The call came in at oh-six hundred hours the next day, technically three hours before either one was on duty. But then, it was an MCRT issue and well, no one else handled these things. Clay, with part of his breakfast still in his mouth, nodded a 'hello' to the agent in charge of today's surprise flight to West Virginia. Swallowing, he boarded, and asked the pilot the flight's ETA.

"Well, with the ice-snow mix, it'll take a bit longer, but it should be about an hour, hour and a half flight."

The pilot was a guy named Weiderman; Clay wasn't positive what his first name was. He was of average height with thinning light brown hair and a strong nose that appeared to have been broken at least once. The pilot continued, saying, "Wouldn't want to be you, though. I heard on the news that West Virginia's mutant groups are nasty."

Clay nodded. "Yeah, the media wants y'all to think that all mutant groups are bad, Weiderman. But, here at S.H.I.E.L.D. we're a bit smarter than that, aren't we?" Maybe six was a tad too early to deal with people who were ignorant. Well, that, and his sixteen-year-old was a pain in the ass sometimes and they had exchanged harsh words last night and he was still acting sullen this morning. Weiderman seemed to take the hint and he went about with checking the plane. Clay got situated in one of the seats and went through his carry-on bag. The great thing about this plane was he could bring whatever he wanted, and what he had wanted to bring was his .44 Magnum and his P225 Sig Sauer with Siglite night sights and K-Kote finish.

Weiderman called back from the pilot's seat, "Hey, it's just you and Agent LeBeau, yeah?"

"Yeah," Clay said back. "He should be here any minute."

Clay was not wrong; Remy entered the plane less than five minutes later. He was blowing his nose and looked altogether miserable as he slumped down in the seat across the aisle from Clay's seat. Clay told Weiderman they were all set and as the plane took off, Clay said to Remy, "I take it the cold's been confirmed," the dad in him coming out slightly. "You look like a train wreck, LeBeau. Like you haven't slept."

"Hardly did," Remy replied. It was true, sometime after midnight, his cold had made itself overtly apparent and he spent the rest of the night sneezing and coughing. Ororo Munroe, his girlfriend, had decided to sleep at her place that night, so at least he hadn't kept anyone else awake.

Clay shook his head, not exactly surprised. "What the hell are you doin' here then?" he asked him, jokingly. Today, neither really had a choice, but Remy didn't take many days off anyways, no matter his condition. He didn't think he could, either because he thought the place couldn't function without him or he was some kind of martyr. Probably both.

Trying to be a good sport, Remy smiled and said, "You know, trying to give it to everyone else. Looking for attention, whatever."

"So you've already been through and licked all the coffee mugs then, huh?"

Remy laughed and then coughed. "You bet." Switching gears into work mode, he said, "Some D.C. guys are meeting us there. I don't know who."

"Is it gonna be bad?" Clay asked. He had only been given the order to head out to West Virginia on an MCRT case. It was the morning news that informed him that earlier this morning several shots were heard and an undisclosed informant said that they were coming from the unknown mutant community.

Remy gave a small shrug and said, "When isn't it?" Then, after another cough, he clarified, "I'm not sure who started it or how many people died, but there were casualties on both sides. But, you know how it is with this community. Take no prisoner type."

It was true; the mutant communities in West Virginia were mostly serpentine mutants, ranging from the physically deformed to the downright poisonous. They had a prevailing gang-like mentality, where the biggest and the loudest became the leader, and everyone did exactly what he said. The last time Clay and Remy had been there, they had rescued a girl from the ranks – a young woman named Ashley who actually currently works at The Rotunda as an administrative assistant for the rookie agents. They would not be doing the same kind of rescuing today.

By the time the plane landed in Benedum Airport, West Virginia and they had taken a car out to the proverbial 'boondocks', near the mountains, the sun had risen and was now shyly hiding behind milky gray clouds. It would probably rain or snow again, Remy figured, as he noticed several people standing around in the dark blue tactical combat suits S.H.I.E.L.D. agents often wore and windbreakers with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo on the right breast and on the back. They were waiting for him, and as he did sometimes, he thought how far he had come in such a short time. Realizing, of course, it was because he had taken an unpopular position. He said 'good morning' to each of the four stiff-backed agents as he shook their hands and they introduced themselves.

Clay did not offer his hand, but instead they saluted him and he them, for he had been in the military and apparently, so were they. Remy cleared his throat, his attention shifting to the all-terrain vehicles and the hiking equipment. The number of serpentine mutants that lived here numbered in the upper hundreds, but they were all spread out along the base of the mountains.

Each community lived in a similar style, in small groups of houses, caves or huts, depending on the civility of the leader of each group. Oftentimes, though, the disturbances took place within the groups that were the most visible, and thus, the most civilized, imagine that. Remy suspected if there was gunfire, it would be one of the largest groups that were involved. They were given the simple codename of WV Zone 2, because that was where within West Virginia they lived.

The four agents, plus Clay and Remy, began the hike to Zone 2, which was only a fifteen minute walk down a steep hill. One of the agents, who had introduced himself as Agent Tanbura gave the sit rep. "It appears that the assailants came down just as we are and took the community by surprise. The locals, an old baseline couple within hearing distance, reported they heard the shots around twelve thirty. Several of them, lasted maybe ten, fifteen minutes. They called the cops, after it was all over, but of course, by the time anyone responded, nothing much could be done. The locals usually deal with complaints in their own way here, anyways, and according to the log books, no one responded until two hours later. By that time, everyone who had survived was gone."

That was usually the downside to dealing with mutant tragedies; they wouldn't necessarily have to be tragic if people would respond in a reasonable time. The job went from assistance to clean up due to negligence and an unaware public. In the clearing below, now visible, there were four houses, a larger one in the middle, triangulated by three small ones. Smoke billowed out of the chimneys – each house had at least three. Because of their cold-blooded physiology, they required the use of extra fireplaces.

Remy had processed what Agent Tanbura had said, and he replied with, "Are you referring to the victims or the assailants when you say 'survived'?" He felt as if he were preparing himself for an answer he did not want.

"Both, sir," Agent Tanbura replied. "Unless of course, the assailants got all of them."

Remy tried to remember just how many people lived in WV Zone 2. Thirty, forty; he wasn't sure. Agent Tanbura continued with, "We're gonna be shipping out bodies for most of the day. Can only do it by helicopter."

Remy shut his eyes for an instance and whispered, "Jesus Christ," and he was unsure whether he meant it as a swear word or a prayer. His thoughts drifted to Ashley for a moment. He remembered very clearly her dirt and tear streaked face and a shivering dog next to her, both begging in their own way for salvation. She used to live here, in the house on the left, some of her family still did. Or did before today that is. He pushed that away quickly. Clearing his throat, he said, "Do we know who's responsible?"

This time Agent Waynesboro answered. She sounded like she was forcing her strength, "It appears a sect of The Purifiers are responsible, sir." She pointed to one of the houses, not the main one, and said, "On a cursory glance we found what appeared to be a dead man wearing a robe similar to what The Purifiers wear. However, we didn't move him and he was on his stomach, so no insignia could be found."

As protocol mandated, no one touched the scene before the medical examiner and forensic photographers, and Remy and Clay met the gray haired ME at the door to the main house. Dr. Carl Bridges looked grim and professional, as he motioned that both Remy and Clay should come in. "Careful where you step," he said.

Clay and Remy took one step inside onto a plastic tarp, and put on shoe covers over their muddy boots, before venturing further into the small house. A smoky metallic smell was sharp and overpowering, but not nearly as much as the carnage that was before them. Clay stepped as close to the wall as he could; the scene before him was terrible, but he had been training for half his life to hide it. Bodies, both big and small, lay strewn about, many of them riddled with gunshot holes, and others with their faces cruelly bashed in. It looked like exactly what it had been – a representation of hate.

He eyed his under the weather partner who was not as accustomed to tragedy, nor would he ever be able to handle it as a military man would. Remy did have some practice keeping himself in check, and though he was doing a pretty good job hiding it, Clay could see right through it.

The main house had one family room, serving as a kitchen and a living room and it had six off shoots, all narrow hallways that led to bedrooms and bathrooms. Because it was the main house, it was the biggest and the most ornate. However, the other houses were built in a similar style, one large room, and small offshoots, maybe three or four, all equipped with fireplaces, which was why there was such an overpowering smoky smell.

During the warmest times of the year, the serpentine community members would spend most of their days in the big family room, dubbed the 'summer' room. But as the weather turned, it was more common for them to spend most of their days, especially the younger ones, in their bedrooms, conserving their heat.

Remy thought of the layout of the house because it was easier than seeing what was before him. A lot of the former occupants were dressed in pajamas, the younger ones in footed pajamas. Surprised from their sleep by a force that wanted nothing more than to eradicate them because they were different.

Dr. Bridges said, "More than likely, the assailants dropped some chemical substance in through the fireplaces, without an analysis, I can assume it reacted with the fire and sent the group to the main room, almost as if they were to evacuate. But they were surprised here. Same with the other houses. A lot of the older victims have gunshot wounds, large caliber, hunting rifles. Many were finished off with blunt force trauma, the butt of the gun, most likely. As for the younger, some died probably of smoke inhalation, some blunt force trauma."

Remy said, "How many do you think there were?" He meant Purifiers. He avoided looking real close at the blunt force trauma inflicted on the small faces littered around him.

Dr. Bridges replied, "Well, from body count alone over twenty assailants. But, whatever they used to get here, most likely the large vehicles that left the tire tracks, are gone. So, who knows how many survived?"

There were maybe three different tire marks, one more possibly in front of another, marked off by tape at the clearing where they had parked. How many people could fit into a truck? At least twenty people died, and at least one person per each vehicle left. It was probably a two-to-one fight; two mutants versus one Purifier. Remy sincerely doubted any of the Purifiers were women or children, though.

Dr. Bridges continued, basically reiterating what Remy had thought out. "So at least three people were able to get away." Changing the subject, he said, "Take notice of the rate of decay here and here, and also the damage to the walls." He pointed to two different Purifiers, whose skin was bloated and showing large areas of raw exposed skin. He also pointed to a wall where the paint was removed and in its place was a yellowish residue. "Venom. They fought back."

Since the Purifiers were here, in the homes, no one thought that the serpentine community of West Virginia had started it, or had drawn first blood. But, twenty dead baseline humans was not a good thing for baseline-mutant relations. Remy didn't have anything to contribute, so Dr. Bridges continued with, "I have finished the on-site examination, but I would prefer you did not move them for identification purposes at this time."

"Of course, Dr. Bridges," Remy responded automatically, and almost too politely. "If you would call me when you're ready for autopsy, I'll identify them then." Turning to Clay, he said, "We'll need the photographer's discs, too."

Clay nodded, but didn't turn to leave the room. To Dr. Bridges, he asked, "Is it possible that we could have a total body count of the residents? Just in case some of them survived?" He too, was trying to remember how many lived in WV Zone 2. He thought maybe closer to fifty.

"Yes, I can see to that," Dr. Bridges replied.

Clay and Remy walked out of the big house and looked around at the other houses, the fires steadily dwindling. Remy said quietly, "How could they all have died from twenty some people?" He had his hands shoved in the pockets of his coat and the red flush on his cheeks and nose stood out against his face which was paler than usual.

"It was a blitz attack. They had them scared, and caught by surprise." Clay knew what Remy was thinking, and said it for him. "They have come a long way from when we got Ashley, more civilized, more trusting. But, this isn't our fault, Remy."

"That's bullshit," he said, almost in a hiss, which was somewhat ironic since they were in a serpentine community. He coughed and continued, "We're the ones who made them more civilized."

Clay would have none of it. He shook his head and replied, "Civilization didn't kill them. The Purifiers did. And they are the only ones responsible here."

Remy said nothing. Just coughed.

"Our priority right now is determining whether anyone survived," Clay said quietly.

"They wouldn't be here, then," Remy replied, and he sounded harsh. "But I think I might know where they are." Remy thought of Ashley again, and her dog, Trust. Ashley was legally blind, by baseline standards anyways, and the thought of having a seeing-eye dog had thrilled her. It was the happiest Remy had ever seen her when she chose Trust out of a litter of golden Labrador pups. "Let's go for a drive."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Mr. George Wrigley lived in a small farm house twenty minutes from the crime scene. The barn, much bigger than the house, came into view before the house, and Remy pulled into the long and winding driveway, passing pastures full of cows, horses and goats. He pulled up next to the house and spotted an old golden Labrador lying in the shade of an oak tree. A dog that looked exactly like Trust – her mother, Sally, of course.

The sharp bang of the screen door sounded and the thump and thud of an old man with a cane was heard before he was seen. His weathered face broke into a smile, the dentures looking unnaturally white against his black face. "Was hoping I'd see you two boys soon. You come on in." Sally followed them inside.

Both Remy and Clay knew better than to just get down to business with Mr. Wrigley before accepting his hospitality and they sat at his small, scarred kitchen table, with the same white tablecloth with tiny little apples. It was the one his late wife had put on the table and it would never be changed.

"I would pour you a whisky, but I know you boys are on the job." His large, somewhat shaky hands held onto the sour mash and he sloshed some into a glass. He poured two tall glasses of lemonade and put it on a wooden tray he had made with his own two hands. Slowly making his way to the table, he sat down, passed out the drinks, and said, "My Callie," he was referring to his youngest daughter, "says I shouldn't drink so much. I always say who else is eighty seven sitting at this table? You boys drink this stuff once a day," he raised a thick finger up, "And you will live to be my age, too."

Clay raised an eyebrow, and said, "I won't argue with you, Mr. Wrigley." He wouldn't argue, but Mr. Wrigley was not correct. If he drank everyday Bridget would kill him long before he reached the age of fifty, much less eighty seven.

He shook his finger at Clay now, and said, "You tell my Callie that." He set the drink down, and seemingly pleased with the small talk, he said, "But I suppose neither my whisky nor my wisdom is bringing you boys here today." Looking up at the walls, cheerily wallpapered in daisies, he said, "Young people don't have the time for fun anymore. Always business."

"Unfortunately, you're right," Clay replied. "And it's only gonna get worse for the next generation, I'm afraid."

"You tell your boys different," Mr. Wrigley said. "And maybe they will be different." Taking another sip of whisky, he got down to business. "I've got myself seven more farm hands."

Remy had expected something like this, he told himself, but seven survivors out of maybe fifty hit him hard. "You'll keep them on hand?" he asked. He drank the lemonade to be polite even though it tasted much sourer than it should have and wasn't settling properly.

"Well, I can only do so much. And my Johnny don't mind the help, either." He gave Remy a small smile, because he knew Remy knew he was keeping the survivors on hand for the simple reason that they needed help, not necessarily because he needed it.

He continued, "You know, one of them's got more arms than an octopus. Very helpful he'll be. How's Ashley? She taking good care of that dog of hers?"

"She works for us, now," Remy replied, "And yeah, Trust comes in with her every day."

"Well, good. They were good for each other." Mr. Wrigley looked long and hard at Remy then, as if he might want to say something. But, he didn't.

"Dad?" a voice called out, and a tall, strong man in his fifties came into the kitchen. He eyed his father's guests and then said, to his father, "Just wanted to know who was visiting." It was apparently Johnny, one of Mr. Wrigley's seven children. Just as quickly as he came in he went back out.

Not wanting the small talk to end, but knowing it should, Clay stood and said, "We should be going. Hopefully, next time I come this way, it won't be for business."

"You bring those boys by, and I'll put them to work." Mr. Wrigley stood too, as did Remy and he walked them out onto the porch. "All my grandbabies do. Keeps 'em humble."

Clay thought of the fight he had with his son earlier and thought it sounded like a good idea. He told Mr. Wrigley so. Then he said, "You mind if we take a trip to the barn and check 'em out?" He meant the surviving serpentine mutants and Mr. Wrigley knew it.

He just waved them towards the barn with a "Sure, sure. You take care now, boys."

The remaining serpentine mutants of West Virginia's Zone 2 were, as expected, shell shocked, and rocked by what had recently happened. Clay took a glance around the barn for novelty reasons first, and then gave Remy his full attention as Remy conducted interviews with each and every one of them – four 'adults', ranging from sixteen to forty nine and three children, aged five, seven and fourteen.

The questions and his expressions changed as he went from oldest to youngest; he wasn't necessarily looking for too many answers today, more just a conversation to let them know that if they needed anything to keep in touch and to tell them he would find those responsible. Obviously, the three youngest kids were the most difficult, and Clay stared at the wall behind them as Remy tried to allay their fears as best he could.

Clay drove them back to the site, just as the helicopter was removing a load of three body bags. The helicopter was taking them out of the valley and out to the airport where they would be transferred en masse to Washington D.C., the Chesapeake Bay actually, where The Triskelion was located, where Dr. Bridges would conduct the autopsies. He informed them that the total death toll was fifty two mutants and twenty four Purifiers.

Clay debriefed the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents as quickly as he could, and made a plan to meet with them within the next few days. They would head up the investigation into the sect of Purifiers responsible and would try to track them down. Clay and Remy would be responsible for identifying the victims at a later date, sometime within the week. Perhaps, the sect would be found. Perhaps, a conviction would vindicate the seven survivors. But, as past cases would attest to, the Purifiers would take care of their own and the deaths of fifty two mutants would most likely be just that. A sad ending. The agents knew it, and Clay and Remy knew it. But, no one said so, because doing so would be admitting that one's job was practically useless, and nobody wanted to say that.

It would be nearly five by the time they landed. Weiderman gave the ETA and further communication between pilot and passengers was unnecessary. Clay watched the indicator lights for the seat belt switch from on to off, and he stayed put in his seat, hands clasped in his lap. He thought of the drive from the sewers yesterday, and needing that time to shake off what one had just came from. Very apropos to the current situation.

He remembered when he had first been assigned to Remy, over three years ago now, that neither one really understood why. Sure, it was a good idea to allow baseline agents a chance to work in a very mutant-centered team. But why Remy and Clay? Well, Clay at least learned why pretty quickly. As an empath, Remy did not handle trauma, death, rampant poverty, brutalized children and the lost and forsaken well at all. And yet, he had a job that put those things in front of him at least once a week. And every once in a while, when he was tired and sick or when the woes were too great, like now for instance, it caught up to him. And so, Clay just sat there, wanting to do something more, but knew it wouldn't be received kindly, as Remy threw up in the plane's small restroom.

On Clay's watch, he had only witnessed this particular reaction a handful of times, but it had yet to get easier for him to deal with. This is what they didn't tell him eight years ago when he switched from the cushy military consultant job in his beloved Texas to S.H.I.E.L.D. And what they didn't tell him when he was first assigned to work hand-in-hand with a mutant Avenger on very real mutant issues.

Remy exited the restroom wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He had splashed cold water on his face after rinsing out his mouth. He looked pale and exhausted as he gripped the seats on the way back to his own. He said nothing as he sat down; the first time it had happened, he pretended it had something to do with what he had eaten, but Clay knew better by now.

Clay gave him a minute or two before he couldn't resist the desire to tell him what to do. "I know you're not gonna listen to me, but I'm going to suggest it anyways. Don't go back into work tonight."

Remy raised an eyebrow at him, maybe a warning, maybe not, and replied, "Makes you feel better to suggest it." It wasn't really a question, just an acknowledgement.

"It does, yes." Clay would not be returning to Westchester tonight, instead heading to The Triskelion to follow up on the tactical training assignment he had had yesterday. He had to take a quick test to see if he qualified as an instructor. It was a formality since it was kind of his job before he was transferred to New York, but he took it because he had to. For paperwork reasons, not because he was actually thinking about changing his position. His phone buzzed again, the third time now since the pilot told them they could turn their phones back on. He ignored it again, with a sigh.

"Family thing?" Remy asked him, his sentences blunt and truncated; the usual after he had dealt with something traumatic. Clay had spoken to Dr. Emma Frost several times to try to understand how best to deal with Remy, or any empath, under these circumstances. Emma told him it was best to let Remy say what he would when he was ready. Clay found it was helpful to talk about other things – more normal things.

"My middle son's game. I can't go to it though, obviously. He'll understand." Like Clay had, all of his boys played football, at various levels. Travis was a quarterback, second string, with a pretty good arm. His eleven year old, Ryder, was still learning the ropes. But his middle son, Hunter, was spirited, passionate and always fun to watch. Also a quarterback, he showed a lot more promise than Travis had at his age.

Remy had also played football, was a decent wide receiver, because he was fast and agile. He had also been an accomplished basketball player and a pretty good high and triple jumper, and still held the record at his high school for the pole vault. He knew very well what it was like to have someone cheer him on in the stands and also what it was like to see an empty seat. And, thinking of all the football games, basketball games and track meets his father had missed because of work, or whatever else, he said, "I never did."

"I guess I could reschedule that training thing," Clay said, mostly to himself, no longer surprised by Remy's intuition. It had at first bothered him that a kid without any parenting experience could know any answers to anything, but especially when it came to children. Now, he accepted it, with a wisdom he sometimes wished he could go back in time with.

Weiderman had orders to take Clay to The Triskelion, so he went into the cockpit to change his plans. He would fly to Westchester, too, and from there, head to his son's football game.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Remy had returned to his desk only to drop off the work mail he had no intention of going through at the moment. He figured he might as well take Clay's advice, since he felt shitty anyways and wouldn't be useful at work. After returning from West Virginia, he had taken a shower because he was cold and smelled of smoke, also throwing up always made him sweaty, and he had brushed his teeth to remove the acidic lemonade and vomit taste. Then he met Ororo for dinner at one of the eateries on the compound, though he ate nothing.

But now, back at his desk, he dropped the mail right in the center of it and then pulled on his gloves. And then the infernal phone started to ring. _Goddamnit. _ He cursed mentally. _Just pretend you're not here, _he told himself as it rang again. But, guilt made him grit his teeth and he caught the phone just before it switched to voice mail. He cleared his throat, to try to sound normal, since sometime after the plane ride he had noticed he sounded pretty far from normal. "LeBeau," he answered.

It turned out to be one of his least favorite persons. Ms. Lisa Pare. "Evening, Ms. Pare," he said, struggling to keep his voice neutrally polite. "What can I do for you? Is Sammy alright?"

"Well, you see," it was clear she was crying, or at least trying to sound as if she was, "I don't think so. He was really angry when he came to visit me, he always visits me Tuesday nights, and he just wouldn't tell me why. I think he's missing."

Remy sniffled, for an entirely different reason than Lisa, and said, "Do you know if Sammy has been under any recent pressures lately? An upcoming test, perhaps, or maybe a fight with a friend?"

Remy knew exactly what Lisa was going to say. "No, I guess he's been real distant lately," she replied.

_Him or you?_ Remy thought, but didn't say, and settled on, "How long is lately, Ms. Pare?" He tried to keep the phone conversations as polite as possible, and always did his best to make his mood match appropriately to whatever situation. Usually, in person, he didn't manage as well, and dropped the 'ma'am and miss' charade and just called her Lisa. It was a lot nicer than what he might have called the notoriously absent and irresponsible mother.

"I don't know," Lisa replied, and it sounded as if her face was now dry and she might not have even cried one bit. "How are these questions helping to find my son?" She sounded annoyed, perhaps upset that he didn't take her at her word.

Remy sniffled again, and swallowed painfully. He was both physically and emotionally sick and tired and did not have the desire to talk to this woman, nor did he have the desire to look for her son. "I'm trying to get a feel for how Sammy is feeling lately. It will help me find him."

"Can we meet somewhere? I can give you his stuff."

_What the hell do you think I'm gonna do with his stuff? Get a fucking scent? _"I don't see why that would be necessary, Lisa," he responded. He muffled a cough into his arm.

"I'm trying to help you, Agent LeBeau, and you're being an asshole," she said stiffly, and like an award winning actress dissolved into more tears.

Suddenly his head was pounding harder than it had all day. "I'm sorry, it wasn't my intent," he apologized as sincerely as he was able. "Why do you think Sammy's stuff will help me find him?"

"I think he's in a gang. I want you to look in his room and through his stuff."

Remy muffled another cough, this one accompanied by slightly louder friends, and he replied, "Okay. I'll send a couple of agents out to your house to take a look at Sammy's room." He had every intention of being asleep by the time the agents would return from the East Salem Apartments where Ms. Pare had recently moved to.

"I don't want anyone else to look through Sammy's stuff. He trusts you."

_If only everyone could get what they wanted_, Remy thought, as the vision of his comfortable bed diminished. He could imagine the scene perfectly if he refused her. She would not cooperate with whomever he sent, and as past events could attest to, she might even get physical. He did not want to send two clueless rookies to her house only to have one of them assaulted. "Give me an hour, Lisa."

Rookies ended up with shit details more often than not, and the two rookies that were currently under his tutelage were Anna Marie Caldecott and Kurt Wagner. He was hoping against all hopes that Kurt was being his usual self and taking a half-day, because he didn't have the patience to deal with Kurt tonight, and was glad to see just Anna Marie in their sanctioned off area. Sometimes, she wasn't pleasant to deal with either, but at least she didn't talk to him like she thought he was stupid, like Kurt did. "Hey, you want to get some valuable experience?" he asked her, and attempted his usual rakish smile.

Anna Marie paused the presentation on Captain America's third visit to Iraq and looked at her superior agent. Though she still had a lot to learn about the job, she had worked with Remy for long enough to notice a few things about him personally. "Sugar, you look just awful."

"I feel about that way, too," he admitted, too damn tired to care about saving face.

She slipped on her conservative brown pumps, watching clips of the aforementioned Avenger did not require shoes, only a feeling of respect, and she stood up, pulling on her coat as she did so. "I'm always up to some learning," she replied, with a shy smile of her own.

"Great. Do you know where the East Salem Apartments are?" They left the Rotunda through the main entrance and started towards the parking lot.

Anna Marie made a face. "Yeah. I take it this isn't going to be a rose garden type of trip."

"Sorry, Ms. Anderson, I never promised you a rose garden," Remy replied, smiling. Though he didn't listen to country music much, he knew she did.

"We'd be lucky to find green grass, I suppose," she muttered, somewhat bitterly. It wasn't exactly true, because Salem was a pretty nice place to be, but in Anna Marie's experience, the people that lived in the aforementioned apartment complex were not. They were, as a whole, lazy and content to live out their lives bitching about things but doing nothing about it. Okay, so she knew one person from there – and he was like that.

Remy turned to sneeze into cupped hands. "Excuse me," he said apologetically.

"Bless you," Anna Marie said.

"Thank you," Remy answered and with the automatic button, unlocked the car door.

"Who exactly are we visiting?" Anna Marie asked as she slid into the passenger seat.

"Do you get car sick?" He had once not asked the question and was sorry when Dr. Emma Frost nearly ruined the interior. And pulling over to the side of a road while driving on a four lane road was difficult when one was in the express lane in heavy traffic.

"No, why?"

"I'll let you read the file on the way then." He handed her a flash drive that would fit into her tablet, one that the big cheese, Mr. Tony Stark recommended they use. "It'll fill you in on Ms. Lisa Pare and her son, Sammy. Save me my voice, anyways." Which was a good thing, considering his voice was already pretty well worn.

It was extensive, and through the forty minute drive, Anna Marie had been only able to glance through the most recent half. But she learned enough.

"According to Lisa," Remy filled in as he found them a parking spot as close as possible to the cheery white and sea green building that for some reason made Anna Marie upset, "Sammy might be in a gang, has been distant lately and she has no idea where he might have gone after he visited with her earlier in the afternoon." He paused to clear his sore throat and continued, "According to Sammy's RA, he did not make the mandatory check-in time after lunch."

"So he's been missing for about six or seven hours then," Anna Marie supplied. "It seems that this isn't unusual for the boy."

"I agree. But, policy requires we check out every complaint for a student enrolled in high school classes or below. Though Lisa makes enough of them to require her own personal agent, if you ask me."

"You don't like her very much, I'm assuming?" Anna Marie asked, getting out the car.

Remy shut his side and said, "Not particularly. Let's just say she thought she would take our first meeting to a very different place than I had in mind."

Anna Marie laughed. "She came onto you?" It was funny to think that Remy would be made uncomfortable by a brazen woman, or that he might be unaccustomed to being hit on, because she knew for certain he was hit on by every type, age and gender. But, she hadn't yet met Lisa Pare.

"And when I refused, she assumed I was gay and told me she was quite all right having sex with someone of my persuasion. At the time, Sammy was a very frightened ten year old who had just fully transformed into a fish-like mutant."

Anna Marie assessed that Lisa was a very inappropriate woman. Remy sneezed again, twice. He excused himself, and sounded irritated.

"Oh my, bless you. So, what would you like me to do?" She meant either talk to Lisa or look through Sammy's room.

"Just follow my lead. We'll most likely have to listen to Lisa's long, sad and pointless story first before we'll have access to Sammy's room. I'm not sure if I think he's actually in a gang, but looking in his room is at least a good start."

"And what about finding Sammy?"

"I already have a couple of S.H.I.E.L.D. soldiers searching the school grounds. I can't be sure at this point Sammy is even missing." Sammy had been quote, unquote 'missing' at least seven times in the two years since Remy had worked with him and his mother. He was always found within the first few hours in some place he was supposed to be.

They walked up the path to the apartment complex, and were lucky enough to go in as a couple was exiting. Anna Marie unexpectedly dodged the couple's eyes and held open the door for Remy, instead of the other way around. And she was never one to be offended by his southern boy chivalry. He made note of a short woman and a tallish man with a shaved head. He would ask her about it later. Lisa's apartment was on the third floor and together, Anna Marie and Remy took the stairs. Apartment 3F looked identical to the other apartments, at least by blueprint design and the outer door.

Remy raised his hand to knock, when Anna Marie whispered, "The lights are out."

Why sit in the dark if one was expecting company? The only room in which the apartment could suit guests was the main room. He leveled a gaze at Anna Marie quickly and then took a bobbi pin from his coat pocket. It was only weird that he was carrying one if one didn't know him. His dexterous fingers moved gracefully and swiftly over the lock and it popped easily. He eased the door open, pushing it towards the interior of the apartment, knowing it would be relatively easy for someone to be lying in wait behind the door. Though, with it being locked, he doubted it, but wouldn't take any chances.

Anna Marie took off her thin camel colored gloves, and noticed Remy had at least three or four playing cards in his hands. He, of course would use them as projectiles if necessary. He went in first, checking behind the door first and Anna Marie followed him, checking in the other direction. She, too, was ready to strike, in a signature move taught to her by Logan and reinforced by her, at first mandatory and now voluntary sessions with Dr. Frost. After a tentative glance through the apartment, at the front door, as protocol mandated, they announced their presence. "Lisa? Are you here?"

No auditory reply, but Anna Marie covered her nose and mouth with her hand and said, muffled and quietly, "Don't you smell that?"

Remy detected Anna Marie's nerves and so he only shook his head 'no' and pointed to his nose, indicating he couldn't smell really anything at the moment. Anna Marie lowered her voice even lower, and she looked practically petrified. "It's awful."

Remy wasn't going to try to smell it, and so, he asked, "What does it smell like?"

Anna Marie thought of a good way to describe it. "It reeks. Like…" she paused, and then added, "The wrong side of a clam bake."

Remy pretended he understood what that meant, and attributed it to a smell similar to fish turning or spoiling, either that or shit. He figured Anna Marie would not say that. "We should check the fridge and the trash first," he replied calmly, trying to keep her calm.

"That's disgusting," she replied. But it was she who opened the door and peered into foggy Tupperware and foil covered bowls and then after putting on a pair of latex gloves, took a tentative look into the trash.

Remy was busy calling Sammy's cellular phone and then Lisa's. "Goddamnit," he cursed when Sammy didn't answer and Lisa's went straight to voicemail. Why would a mother turn her phone off if her son was missing?

"Nothing in here that smells like that," Anna Marie said. "Or maybe my nose just can't take any more stink."

"I'll check the bedrooms," Remy said, sounding even more stuffed up than before. Anna Marie supposed it was on purpose.

"It could be coming from the bathroom," she suggested, thinking of perhaps an unflushed toilet, or a soiled tampon. She wanted to gag but held her ground.

Remy nodded, "Be careful."

Another wave of the smell hit her hard, or maybe it was just her mind playing tricks on her, and her eyes watered and bile rose in her throat. Swallowing carefully, not wanting to throw up in front of a superior agent she said, "How the hell can she live like this?"

Remy just shook his head and headed off towards the bedrooms, wondering now if Anna Marie were making emotional connections to the smell instead of it actually being that putrid. Everyone was guilty of it at times. Death by water scenes were always difficult for him. Bloated bodies and slipping flesh did not sit well. Maybe she didn't like spoiled food or whatever it was that she smelled.

Anna Marie carefully entered the tiny bathroom, noticed first that the toilet was open, yet flushed. There wasn't enough residue to elicit the kind of stink she was still smelling. The garbage can had only tissues and an e.p.t. pregnancy test inside; apparently, Ms. Lisa Pare was not having a period. She moved the shower door open carefully and saw much of the same. Stray hairs, yes. Soap scum, absolutely; but not anything horrific. She opened up the cabinet underneath the sink, and saw nothing of interest. So far, everything seemed too clean to cause a smell this awful.

Remy entered Lisa's bedroom and finally smelled something. The overpowering smell of Lisa's perfume. He sneezed as he pushed open her bathroom door and wondered if she spilt the whole damn bottle of eau d'obnoxious. His eyes watered and he left quickly, sneezing again, turning towards Sammy's bedroom, entering after picking the lock.

Anna Marie joined him, after her futile search through the bathroom, and she immediately knew it was in here that held the smell. "I can't believe you can't smell that. It's revolting."

But he was beginning to. After all, nasal congestion could only do so much. Something else other than Lisa's perfume. It smelled like turned seafood, which was one of the most disgusting food smells, and that was enough, he supposed to cause Anna Marie to be so upset. Sammy was at least part fish. He coughed, and said, "Look under the bed."

She knelt down and peered under the bed while Remy checked the small closet. "Oh God, Remy," Anna Marie said, "It's coming from here."

Remy too, got down too, and looked under the bed. "Jesus Christ," he whispered, coughing again as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. The box was too small to contain even someone as small as Sammy was. He reached back towards the wall and pulled out a box shipped from Fed Ex. Even through his gloves, he could feel the dampness of something – perhaps decay. The structural integrity of the box had diminished since whoever had put their treasures inside, but it held up enough to not spill its contents as Remy pulled it out. He opened it up and was surprised to find what appeared to be fish scales.

A choked sob from behind them turned their heads suddenly, forgetting for a moment their disgust and confusion, to see Ms. Lisa Pare, watching them from the doorway. "Is that what I think it is?" Her hands shook as she took them away from her mouth. "My baby's in some kind of trouble, isn't he?"

Anna Marie got her first look at this poor excuse for a mother. She was dressed as if she was ready for a night out. Her short, light brown hair blown out and crimped. Her blouse low and revealing, the visible petal pink push up bra doing its job. Her tight black pants provocative. And her makeup dark and sultry. Her kid was missing for seven, eight hours and this woman was ready to party. She reminded herself of the Casey Anthony case and decided not to be too judgmental. Appearances could be deceiving.

Remy was now standing and because of the combination of being lied to, going on a nasty treasure hunt and not feeling well, whatever patience he had was gone. "Where the hell were you, Lisa? I don't appreciate being led on some goddamned wild goose chase. It never crossed your mind to let me know exactly what I would find in your son's room?" He noted silently that the only way to lock the door was from the inside, and he wondered what that might imply.

Lisa broke down, and because of some reason she didn't understand, Anna Marie let a woman she didn't know collapse against her in loud, gasping sobs.

Remy squeezed his eyes shut, and turned away from her, tired of her games and tired of the steady pounding in his head, made worse by her irritating blubbering and the smell of perfume and fish. "I'm going to have to take this in," Remy said, meaning the box, though saying so wasn't necessary.

Lisa pulled herself slowly away from Anna Marie and wiped her face, rubbing hard but not before Remy saw there were hardly any tears to wipe away. "I wanted you to get your own impression, without me telling you what was here."

"My impression was that you flew the coop," he was still bitterly angry and did not want to have this conversation. He took off his soiled gloves, turning them inside out and placed them on top of the partially closed box.

Anna Marie decided it was time to learn how to do this job the hard way. "Ms. Pare?" she said, and the woman turned to her, seeming to see her for the first time. "I'm Anna Marie. I can appreciate the fact that you were trying to let us do our jobs, but you must understand that it seemed sort of fishy, don't mind the pun, for you to not be here and the smell was rather suspicious."

Because Anna Marie had never before met Lisa, she wasn't aware she had just stepped into a war zone. Lisa looked at the slim beauty with gorgeous green eyes and full lips and her fury rose. She had heard the words of caution and concern expressed between Agent LeBeau and this woman from her bedroom closet and a possessiveness she had no right to feel angered her beyond reason. "And how the hell do you think I felt, Anna Marie?" Lisa snapped both viciously and sarcastically, her done up face now splotchy red with anger. "I thought my son was in a gang. I thought my baby was dead!"

Green as grass eyes widened in shock, and the ever cantankerous Anna Marie was just about ready to lose it. "That is exactly what we thought, that your son was dead and you had left, leaving us to clean up your mess." She was nearly shaking, because for as hot tempered as she seemed, she really was just sensitive and didn't like confrontation.

Lisa turned to Remy and slammed her fists against her hips. "Are you going to let her talk to me like this?" then she raised her voice even more and said, "Is she saying I had something to do with this? With this!" She was stabbing her fingernails into her palms as they rested against her and she hoped to restore her calm demeanor. It was harder than one could imagine playing the victim and Agent LeBeau, though polite, wasn't usually a fool.

"No," Remy replied quietly, finally regaining his cool. "No one is saying anything." He touched Anna Marie gently at her elbow and said, "Would you please bring in the evidence kit that's in the trunk?" He slipped the keys into her pocket because she still had her gloves on. He knew she needed a break, and not so much from the smell, but Lisa.

She looked into his softened espresso colored eyes and nodded slowly. "Yes sir," she responded automatically and left, taking off her gloves with an angry snap. Though it angered her that he knew she needed a break, she was grateful. She would walk quickly out of the apartment and stand by the car taking deep breaths to calm herself down. And she would not cry, not even a little.

Remy turned back to Lisa after Anna had gone and said, "I'm more than capable of getting my own impression, you in the room, or not. Agent Caldecott is more than capable as well. And she was fair in saying we assumed the worst. Lights off, a strong smell, come on, Lisa, this isn't our first time around the carousel."

Lisa looked ready to cry again. Or pretend to cry, anyways. Remy said, "Enough with the waterworks. Give me time to look this over. The fact that Sammy has this in his room is cause enough for concern. However, I don't think it means he's in a gang. Acting out, probably. What I need from you now is the truth."

"Sure, Agent LeBeau. I only want what's best for my baby."

Remy sneezed. "Excuse me," he said quietly, and he purposely did not respond to her acclaim that she wanted what was best for her baby. "How long have you noticed the smell?"

"Um, just before I called you."

"Really?" Remy asked, doubtful. "It smells like a landfill in here." That was an exaggeration, of course, but he could imagine if one sat in here for hours, it would become overwhelming. "And Sammy came to visit you when?"

"I told you," she replied, hotly. "He always visits me on Tuesdays. For lunch."

Remy observed expressionlessly that Lisa did not answer his question. She wouldn't want him to think she hadn't noticed the smell because she wasn't being the victimized little mother waiting for him. She also used vague words like 'lunch' when she had before used more telling words like Tuesday. But, he would ignore that for now, as always his concern was for Sammy. Someone had to care about him, after all. "He didn't check in after lunch, for the mandatory check in. I'm assuming he took the bus or subway either right after he ate or skipped lunch altogether and came here. Is that accurate?"

Anna Marie came back inside and after putting on a fresh pair of gloves, quietly went about bagging and tagging the box of fish scales as well as taking several pictures. She also put both hers and Remy's gloves into separate bags, labeling everything with her initials as she had been taught. She didn't even look at Lisa.

Lisa did glance at her, though, and consequently moved closer to Remy, the movement of her body sent waves of the fuck-me-musk-and-floral perfume in his direction. His eyes watered. She replied with inappropriate affect, almost a purr, "Yeah. He ate when he was here. I made him lunch."

"Good, that's helpful," Remy replied, before turning away from her to sneeze. Sniffling, he continued, "Excuse me. He eat it, or pick at it?" He was trying hard to focus on his questions and his train of thought instead of the smells.

"Are you saying I'm a bad cook, Agent LeBeau?" she said with a chortle, quite self-centeredly, and it was so over the top flirtaceous, that Anna Marie was glad no one could see her look of disgust.

Remy remained completely noncommittal and uninterested. Inside, he was angry and disgusted, too. But, mostly because there was obviously something very wrong with this woman. "I just want to know if he was hungry."

"Yeah, he ate a lot. Growing boys, I'm sure you know." Lisa made a direct reference to Remy's height and athletic build as she looked him up and down slowly, lingering on the things that separated them as man and woman. She might have had some small amount of tact, because even though she was close enough to touch him, she didn't. Anna Marie was surprised.

Once again, Remy ignored it. "Did he bring anything with him? His book bag, a gym bag, perhaps?"

"Yeah. I think so. Maybe both. I asked him if he was going to stay for a few nights. I told him I just cleaned his room."

_Well, don't you deserve mother of the year_, Anna Marie thought bitterly. She said aloud, "So this couldn't have been in here before his visit today, right?"

"Of course not," Lisa said, harshly, because it was Anna Marie who asked, "I would have noticed it and cleaned it up."

"Not even the box?" she asked.

"I'm sorry; I don't usually notice just regular old boxes." She said this with a little ironic smile as she shrugged, as if to say who could blame her, and Anna Marie's question was useless.

Remy coughed and said, "Then what happened? After he ate."

"He said he needed to chill out, or something, for a while, and went to his room."

"When was this?"

"I'm not sure exactly, Agent LeBeau." She always emphasized his last name, trying to sound as if she spoke French fluently, but for Remy, who did speak it fluently, it was unimpressive. She had told him once, since her last name was also French, was pronounced 'Par-ey', and not 'Pear', that she had come from Paris in the nineteen eighties.

"Can you approximate?" he asked. "Or can you tell us how long he was here?" Now, Remy was getting to his earlier point. The empty apartment, the locked door, the party outfit. The vague times.

If Lisa knew what he was getting at, she pretended she didn't. "Well, like I said, he came, ate and left. Do you think someone else put that thing here? Like a gang member? You know how they put fingers in a box and stuff?"

Her preoccupation with her own contrived gang-member theory was unnerving, but what was even more upsetting to Remy was she again avoided his question and also somehow knew what was in the box even though they hadn't told her and she couldn't really see it from her vantage point. Certainly not now since it was inside a white bag. "I need a time, Lisa. When did Sammy get here? When did he leave?" His voice was steady and calm, trying to force her to be truthful.

Lisa bit her lip, and her eyes watered. "It's so hard to think when you ask me so many questions. I'm so scared. Oh, please find my baby."

Remy didn't tell her not to cry this time. He coughed again.

Anna Marie decided to switch tactics. "Don't worry, Ms. Pare. We'll find Sammy. Just be patient with us. Can you remember what you made Sammy for lunch?"

Lisa sniffed and managed a watery smile at Anna Marie as if she had never yelled at her and didn't hate her for no reason. "Yes," she ventured bravely, "we had sandwiches and soup. And he also ate crackers and some chocolate candy."

"Is this a usual meal?" Anna Marie continued, "Or have his eating habits changed recently?" Anna Marie thought about eating disorders for a second, wondering if the disgusting fish scales in a hidden place was some sort of metaphor for it. She remembered a girl she went to high school with who hid things she liked to eat in her closet, like candy or chips and forced herself to take it out and look at it. Did Sammy used to eat fish before he became fish-like?

Lisa shrugged, finished with Anna Marie once again, and said, "Uh, I think it's pretty normal. I mean, grilled cheese sandwiches and soup are pretty common." No trace or hint of her earlier sorrows. Her voice was flat.

"What kind of soup?" she pressed on, knowing she wouldn't get much more and hoping it wasn't clam chowder, the very thought making her feel ill. Everything about it made her ill, actually. The thought, the look, the smell…she stopped herself from going any further.

Lisa sighed, making her annoyance shown. "So many questions." Turning to Remy, she said, "Agent LeBeau, how will this help find my son?"

Remy gave her a very pointed look, before coughing again. "Every detail is important, Lisa." He used her name often, and not because he liked to say it, but to personalize her, when he knew she wanted to be depersonalized. She wanted to objectify herself to him – and any man – and he would have none of it.

She said, "It was just regular Campbell's vegetable beef."

Remy knew Sammy was a vegetarian, not by choice but by his physiology. He had told Lisa many times that Sammy could not digest meat well and thus, she should not make it for him. He ignored this, though, for now, not wanting to think of the poor kid sick with cramps because his mother was a neglectful idiot. Or the other likely scenario that Lisa had no idea what Sammy ate for lunch.

Remy thought it over in his head. She had no idea of the time Sammy came or when he left but knew exactly what she had fed him. She remembered that she told him she had just cleaned his room. But not what he had brought with him, though conveniently she said he had brought what Remy had suggested he did, which was probably a mistake on his part.

Anna Marie could tell Remy was tired and she suspected, though Lisa was doing a good job hiding it, that she was using it against him. Her emotional switching, from high to low and flat were probably not helping either, even if Remy knew they were fake. So, she said, "We can do very little from here, to be honest, Ms. Pare. What we need to do now is take the valuable information you've given us and get out there and find Sammy."

"Yes, of course," she said, and Anna Marie was surprised she sounded a bit pouty. As if, when they left, no one would be there to give her attention.

Remy was not at all surprised. Anna Marie continued, "What we'll do, just so you know, is call the subway stations and the bus stations, to see if anyone recognized Sammy earlier in the day. Maybe we'll even get lucky with the surveillance."

For a moment, Lisa was speechless, and there was nothing on her face that would indicate that sorrow or shock was the reason. Then, she recovered, and replied, "And what if you don't find him? You'll check the school? His room? Oh, my poor baby. He's only twelve, you know. And I had him so young." She covered her face again, but no one believed she was crying. Not after she had just tried to point out what a young mother she was. Maybe also trying to rationalize why she wasn't always a good mom.

Remy ignored that, though Anna Marie didn't, and instead he focused on the fact that she had asked them to check the school and his room. He would not be missing if he was at the school or in his room, and it was becoming a real possibility that this was a set up just to bring people out to her house to give her attention. Like the other seven times. She wouldn't want them to check all those places and figure out he was never there.

"We'll leave no stone unturned, ma'am," Anna Marie said, and she spitefully called her ma'am to show she was not as young as she tried to act. "And we'll let you know as soon as we find out anything. You might want to keep your phone on." Evidence bags in hand, she walked towards the door, not sorry for her attitude because she thought she disguised it well.

"Ma'am?" Remy questioned as they were walking down the stairs towards the entryway.

She shrugged, "It's a polite term for an older woman," she replied with a small smile.

He smiled too; Lisa was older than both of them, though not by much, but wasn't quite ready to let her off the hook. "I think you spooked her with the mentioning of surveillance. Smart thinking."

"I thought she was lying. Don't you?"

Remy shrugged and coughed. "Lisa always lies; it's a matter of sorting out exactly which part of her story is the lie. Sammy is still our priority, and so far no one has found him." He would have received a text message, or a call, if Sammy had been found. His phone had yet to buzz.

The weather outside had turned bitterly cold, and a dangerous layer of ice coated the ground. "I should have worn more sensible shoes," she added, almost slipping because her heels were not suitable.

His hand gripped her arm, right above her elbow, his reflexes quicker than she realized. He was smart and had worn boots with certainly more traction than she had. "Thank you," she murmured. "All this time living in the north now, you'd think I'd be more careful."

"You can take the girl out of the south, but not the south outta of the girl," he replied. "I personally think that's a good thing."

She smiled. "There's no reason to take the south outta anybody, if you ask me." The fact that both had been transplanted from the Delta into Yankee territory had always been a comforting thought for her. As if she weren't the only outsider. He did a better job hiding his accent, though. But then, he spoke flawless French, Spanish, and Italian. Of course he could get rid of his Southern accent if he wanted to. She also suspected he didn't want people to think he was a stupid redneck; his obvious Cajun heritage was often cause for a lot of stereotyped observations. She, on the other hand, couldn't care less what people thought of her drawl.

He smiled, too. Though she came from Mississippi, and not his home state, she was often the closest thing he could find to remind him of home. Because Clay Quartermain and his Texas did not count.

"So what do we do now?" she asked him, for his sake, hoping he would not say join the search party.

He sighed and replied, "Go to bed, hopefully." He turned away from her and sneezed, murmuring an 'excuse me' that sounded tired and annoyed.

"Bless you. How about I drive us back to HQ?" she suggested in that tone of hers that was not really a suggestion. She held out her hand, palm up, silently telling him to give her the keys.

He relented and plopped the keys into her hand. And he said nothing else until they were both buckled and on the road. After all, she wouldn't abandon him in his condition would she? "So, what is it with East Salem Apartments that irks you? Or should I ask which occupant does?"

She stared straight ahead, pretending it was because of the tiny icy pellets whizzing by. "I thought you were tired," she managed.

"I am. I'll just lean on back and you can tell me all about him." He did lean the seat back a bit, and put his arms behind his head.

She sighed, angry at herself because of her tendency to wear everything on her sleeve. "Nothing much to say. He was a jerk, I was an idiot. Once I figured that out, I fixed it."

Remy smiled at her no-nonsense way of talking. But then he asked quite seriously, "I would think fixing a situation would mean no leftover feelings, no?"

"Who said I had any?" she said, and even though his eyes were closed, he knew she had tipped up her nose and sat up straighter, tenser. Her body language was very easy to read, and it said, 'don't go there'.

Her tendency to use sarcasm, humor or anger to avoid a conversation occasionally irked him and sometimes made him smile. He wasn't yet sure where he was headed. "I just did," he replied, neutrally.

He heard her huff. "Well, maybe I didn't ask you." The fact that she had indeed asked a question was not important. She turned on the radio and switched the station to country.

Remy recognized Toby Keith's _A Little Too Late_. He'd gotten fairly good at recognizing who was who, mostly because of Clay. "You asked somebody and seeing since I'm the only one here…" he trailed off; maybe he was too tired to get into anything with her.

"Oh, go back to coughing, why don't you?" she said, always needing to end an argument in her favor. She had never before met anyone who didn't let her get away with her shifting mood swings. Maybe because he was as bad as she was.

He sent a quick email from his phone and then changed the subject, "The next shift of soldiers will take over at eleven. Two or three of them will be handed instructions to continue the search for Sammy. As for you and I, we're done until tomorrow morning."

She relaxed now, since they were no longer talking about her, and replied, "Do you think he's alright? I mean, he's been gone longer than any time before."

"It's too soon to tell. We'll worry after twenty four hours have passed." he answered her, perhaps unfairly, with the standard talk of the trade.

She suspected that he spoke that way for his benefit and not hers. She didn't know Sammy, and he had known him for two years. If she were of the touchy-feely variety, she might have reassured him with a touch to the hand, but she wasn't. She said instead, perhaps also unfairly, "We can't deny it's a slightly different M.O. for him."

"That's true," he said, and maybe it was because she was willing to talk now and not before that caused him to be irritated. Maybe it was because fifty two mutants died senselessly last night and he didn't want to think about one more. And maybe it was because he was tired, and cold and sick, but he added rather bitterly, "Would you like to stop by a cemetery on the way home and dig a grave for him?" She could not have known what was going through his head, what things he had seen today, and yet, he took it out on her as if she should have known.

Her eyes widened at his tone and his suggestion, and she said, "I didn't say he was dead, Remy. I was just pointing out that he's been gone for a lot longer than any other time."

"I know what you were pointing out. I wrote all the other goddamn reports."

She bit her lip, feeling uncomfortable since he was still her superior, though most of the time he treated her, and most, as his equal. She counted to ten before she said, really quietly, "Yes, I know you did." Logan would be so proud of her meditation skills. She had been assigned to him for the first six months after her graduation from The Academy and he had worked hard trying to thicken her skin. 'Act, don't react' was his favorite slogan. He had yelled it in her face plenty of times.

Realizing now that his hotheadedness was uncalled for, he sighed. "Sorry, it's been a long day." They were pulling into the compound's main gates now and heading towards the Rotunda's main entrance.

"It's alright," she said, somewhat shortly, as she parked the car and handed him the keys. "Anything you need me to do before I go home?"

He thought about it and said, "Send the pictures to Emma and ask her for an analysis."

"Will do," she replied.

"Thank you. Good night, Anna." Perhaps, manners were extra important right now, since it was obvious she still was feeling prickly towards him. She'd get over it, eventually, he decided. And if she didn't, he'd have two rookies that hated him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Remy allowed himself to sleep an extra two hours, skipping his usual morning workout for the second day in a row. He knew he'd regret it later, because for some reason, as Dr. Hank McCoy, resident geneticist, tried to explain, due to the kinetic energy he had running through his body at all times, he had a lot of pent up energy that if left alone would cause him to be fidgety and irritable. Things like extra-long workouts, spontaneous basketball games and having sex kept him at an even keel, so to speak. It was also the reason why even though his body always felt warm to the touch he often felt colder than someone of his size and athleticism should.

At a quarter to eight, he was at his desk, and had gone through all of his phone messages and emails. So far, there was no word on the sect of Purifiers responsible for the deaths of the fifty two serpentine mutants of West Virginia and also Sammy was still missing as of seven a.m. though they weren't completely finished with the security disks yet. He tried to ignore the math, but couldn't. If Sammy had eaten lunch with Lisa yesterday, then he would be missing for anywhere between fourteen and seventeen hours, but if he had not eaten with her, it would be closer to nineteen.

Picking up the phone, he was ready to dial Emma's extension, but then he saw her coming towards his desk. She was dressed in a cap sleeve dress, a to-the-elbow short coat, patterned and hemmed nylons and three inch high heels with a silver toe and a silver spike heel. She helped herself to a corner of his desk, even moving some of his paperwork, and her dress slid up her thighs showing more than necessary. Sex appeal was Emma's middle name – actually, by contrast, it was Grace – and she very much knew it. By now, most of her colleagues were used to it.

"Did you not go home last night?" Remy asked her, in direct regard to the way she was dressed, as if for a hot date and not work. Yeah, he was used to her sexualized clothing, but that didn't mean he ignored it.

She smiled, just slightly, as she glanced at him. Though she would readily admit he always looked attractive, no matter what he was wearing – or not wearing, though she could admit sadly she'd never seen him in a total state of undress – he was the one who looked as if he might have spent the night in the office. Or spent the night anywhere that wasn't conducive for sleeping, anyways. His eyes looked slightly bruised underneath and they were more heavily lidded than usual. "I might say the same thing to you," she said, adding, "Though I had much more fun than you did, by appearances."

"Touché," he said, realizing he should have made sure his wits were sharp before trying to start something with her, even if it was in jest.

Satisfied with that, she got around to the reason for her visit. "Thanks for the pictures. You could have put a warning in the inbox; I almost lost my breakfast." Emma had an infamously weak stomach and pictures of fish scales, which some of them appeared to be moldy, at any time were bad enough, but much worse at six o'clock in the morning.

He shrugged, turning away from her to cough. "Don't thank me. Anna sent them."

Emma rolled her eyes. She knew who sent them, the email obviously told her so, but she also knew it was under Remy's direction. However, she didn't want to get into it with him, if for any reason because he was obviously ill prepared and not up for their usual banter. "You sound like crap, by the way."

Remy nodded and turned away from her to cough again, "It sounds worse than it is."

"I'm sure it does," she responded, getting as warm and fuzzy as she ever got. Switching gears, she said, "I passed the email and the evidence number on to Jean, but I doubt a scientific analysis will be more helpful than my psychological one." Of course Emma would think that way.

"Which is?" Remy asked and wondered if he was already starting to feel irritable because he hadn't gone for a run the last two mornings.

"We can't be entirely sure Sammy is the one who put them there, but I'm sure it's not lost on you that Sammy is relatively the same color as the scales were. We won't know definitively until Jean lets us know, but either he or someone took his scales and put them in a box or someone, perhaps him, put scales in a box that resembled his."

Remy thought about that for a moment, and said, "But what would be the implications of either action?"

"If they're his, and he did it, self-mutilation. He is acting out on what he hates about himself most. His physical appearance. If he did not do it, think of the most likely source – his mother. Maybe Sammy sheds them and she saves them."

"But why?" he asked, as he turned away from her and sneezed. "Excuse me." To him, it was the same as saving hair clippings, teeth or fingernail clippings – weird and disgusting.

"It brought you to her door, didn't it?" Emma responded mildly, knowing what he was thinking . "She got the attention she desires."

"Okay, but what if they aren't his?" He sneezed again. "Why the hell would Sammy have some other fish scales under his bed? Comparison reasons?"

"He's twelve, right? Maybe he likes those better for whatever reason."

"Why not take a picture of them?" Remy asked, rhetorically.

She stood up and said, "I think the fact that he's twelve might explain it. I'm going to rearrange my schedule today, making myself available to you." It was her way of saying that she knew he would need help with this case, and also that it interested her. "I'll get us a conference room. In the meantime, gather up your rookies and fill them in so they aren't completely useless."

Remy might have said a lot of things, but today, at least, he was grateful for her help. "Yes ma'am," he replied. "See you at nine." It was when he expected to meet in the conference room.

In lieu of calling his two rookies, he sent them each a text message that told them to read the email he sent them. Then he attached the Sammy files from the flash drive, as well as the email Anna Marie had sent to Emma last night and sent it all. He figured they could figure out the important parts to read before nine.

Black ankle-high tactical boots on thin carpet alerted Clay's presence. His voice was slightly tense, as he said, "Morning. How's your cold?" Remy could tell without looking up that Clay was not in the best of moods. Remy could also figure out why.

However, he ignored it for now, and replied, "Hanging in there. How was the game?"

"Fine. They won by a field goal."

"Good," Remy said.

Clay didn't waste any more time. He usually didn't when in a mood. "You should have relegated the Sammy case to someone else. Or at the very least have called me."

"Maybe so," Remy replied. "But I didn't." He knew Clay was not upset because he felt slighted, but because he was worried and felt guilty for seeing his son's game instead of doing his job. "We don't have a lot of time to argue about it."

Clay understood this, perhaps even more than Remy did, considering his Ryder was close to Sammy's age and Clay couldn't imagine him being missing for almost a full day. In all honesty, and maybe it was a criticism of his and Bridget's parenting skills, Ryder wouldn't last half a day without them. Heck, his other two sons might not either. "What would you have me do?"

"We're going to meet with Emma at nine. Someone should have analyzed those security discs by now. To see if he took the subway, or God forbid, a plane."

"Any idea where he might wanna go?" Clay asked.

"That's where Lisa would come in handy. If she were reliable."

Clay nodded, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Well, there has never been a father in the picture, but that doesn't mean he might not have figured out who it is."

Remy shrugged, hoping it wasn't that serious. "I was kind of thinking – or hoping - an aquarium."

"That's where Dr. Frost will come in handy. I'll go see about those discs."

"We have to visit Red today, too," Remy said, more as a reminder to himself.

Clay nodded. "If we don't keep our word, we'll look like pushovers. Maybe have one of the rookies go instead."

"I wouldn't trust them without you or I present."

"Well, we have some time yet. Sammy is priority one."

The only reason Kurt Wagner was early for this meeting was because he had walked with Anna Marie. In fact, at eight forty five, they were the only ones in the conference room closest to Emma's office. He yawned openly and slid into a chair, his lanky body always resembling more of a cartoon jester than a Nightcrawler, in Anna Marie's opinion. But perhaps, his code name referred to the fact that he was nearly invisible at night with his shadowy blue and purple skin and his curly black hair. He also had pointy, elfish ears, a pointed nose and chin, and only three digits on his hands and feet. His feet were so abnormally shaped, in fact, that he had to have special shoes made, or else he could only wear really large flip flops. He had a tail, too, one that was just as dexterous and suitable for climbing as his fingers and toes were. Sometimes, it flicked back and forth, similar to her cat Ginny's tail when she was watching a bird outside the window. If she hadn't known him for almost four years, she would be terrified of him.

Kurt put down his traveler's coffee mug and yawned again. He was nocturnal, and so, early mornings were hard for him. Powering on his iPad, he found today's email from their superior agent and pulled up the files on Sammy Pare. He didn't make time earlier to give it more than a glance, and frankly, he thought it would be a waste of his time, anyways. But he left it open. Turning to Anna Marie, he asked, "Doesn't it seem to be a little late to be having this meeting? I mean this kid has been gone almost a day already." He may not have read it thoroughly, but he was intelligent enough to understand what had transpired; details could be easily obtained when they were necessary. It was the main idea, the thesis of every situation that was important.

Anna Marie shrugged; she knew where Kurt was headed with this, yet another critique of Agent Remy LeBeau. He was never this bad when they worked under Logan. But then, Remy wasn't a scary little hairy man who could tear your skin off without using his adamantium claws. Physically speaking, Remy was probably stronger than Kurt, he was taller and not as lankly anyways, but Kurt, as a teleporter, was surely much faster. She could imagine a physical fight between the two would never happen though, if for no other reason than the two of them were not rednecks; and so, they resorted to barely concealing their dislike for the other.

On the contrary, Logan would pick a physical fight with anyone. And, unlike Remy and Kurt, he didn't give a damn about speed, he'd wait all day in shadows you didn't see and catch you when you were feeling the most self-confident. Logan had told them he had done just that to Remy, among others, a few years before them, and that was something Kurt had never forgotten. Patience and humility had been Logan's points, Anna Marie knew. But, Kurt had learned that Remy was a cocky asshole who certainly needed to learn both traits. Never mind the fact that Kurt also needed to learn them.

Kurt honestly didn't need Anna Marie, or anyone, to answer; he was ready with a reply. "Regardless of past behavior, I think every missing kid case should be treated with the utmost importance." He had a German accent and so his 'W's' sounded more like 'v's' and he had a thickness to his words that sounded, to Anna Marie, like he always knew what he was talking about.

From the time she met him, she marveled at the confidence he had in his intelligence and had respected him for it. She wasn't aware at the time that his confidence in his intelligence was overcompensation for his lack of confidence about things like his appearance. Even so, once she had realized it, she was even fonder of him, seeing his vulnerability as human and something she could relate to. But, now, he was always critical. She might have said that Ms. Lisa Pare didn't call until at least seven hours after the fact, but she didn't. She said instead, "I agree all missing kids are important. Did you finish that report you were working on for that class of yours?" She had learned from an early age that a fine way to get someone to talk about something else was to ask them a question about themselves.

"My ancient religions class?" Kurt asked, always pleased to talk about himself and his eventual master's degree. "Yeah. Yesterday. It was a very interesting topic. Relating Jesus Christ to other god-like figures before him." Kurt was a devout Catholic, and no matter how many contradictory religious classes he would take, his convictions just became stronger. His faith was probably his strongest characteristic.

She nodded, picking at her nails. As a semi-practicing Southern Baptist, who liked her Jesus as a friendly face and not as a lecturing point, she did not like religious discussions at all. She figured Jesus wouldn't want people to fight over what version of Christianity was better or more right than the next. Everyone had their reasons for choosing one over the other, and there wouldn't be so many if it weren't alright with Him. Her parents would have disagreed fervently, saying God didn't want any religion that picked through the Holy Bible and only took from it what they wanted. Mr. and Mrs. Caldecott never saw that that was the very thing they did when they hated people because of their religion, or where they were from, the color of their skin, their genetic makeup or their sexual orientation. Just one of the many reasons she left home at eighteen and never looked back. "That's good," she replied, not looking up from her fingernails.

"You know," he said, ignoring her again, "This time of year especially it isn't wise to pick at your fingernails. The winter weather makes them brittle enough."

She had tried the fingernail polish trick, the putting money in a jar trick, the tying a red string around your finger trick, but nothing had ever worked for her. She always picked her fingernails and the skin around them when she was bored, nervous, or saw something worth picking. "Don't you think I'd stop if I could?" she asked, slightly annoyed with him by now. She usually got along with Kurt wonderfully. Until they had both been assigned to Remy, anyways.

"Yes, I think you could – if you wanted to. Which I'm surprised you don't, normally, you're very strong willed."

Ignoring him this time, because she hated it when he psychoanalyzed her, she looked at her pale-pink painted fingernails. She had painted them last night because they would match the pink in her beige, floral printed scarf and compliment the green blouse she wore today nicely. But now, the tops would all have to go. Taking the thumb nail she was grateful to have, she scraped the tops off each nail so they resembled each other in wear and tear.

"Where are they?" Kurt said, seeing the time on his iPad. He could be very impatient at times, when it came to waiting on people he didn't particularly like. He huffed, ready to go on with something indignant.

She said, "Please don't start, Kurt."

He busied himself with the Sammy files, then, maybe deciding he should obtain a few details.

By the time the meeting started, the time was almost three past, which Kurt did not overlook. Agent Clay Quartermain had not yet joined them, but they got started without him. As per usual, Dr. Emma Frost took charge, even though it wasn't technically her case. Remy didn't seem to mind, though Kurt suspected he secretly did. She stood at the front, just casual, though she was dressed to the nines. Clasping one hand over the other, she began with a synopsis of the events that had transpired over the last twenty hours.

Kurt didn't need to listen to her tell them about something he could read about. Emma occasionally looked at Remy for confirmation about a detail here or there and he would simply nod, as if he couldn't be bothered with talking at the moment. He sat to her right, and from his striped blue and white button shirt, thick gray sweater, khaki colored pants, large-faced silver watch, and his collar length brown hair with a pen behind his ear he looked to Kurt just like one of those models in a magazine. Obnoxiously handsome and totally brainless.

Kurt couldn't help but notice other people's attractiveness, and he also noted their sense of vanity and confidence. Remy had both, was secure in how he looked, and hardly needed to show it off. Emma, on the other hand, with her made-up face, perfectly coiffed dyed hair, fake nails and the rumor that she'd had plastic surgery was a tell-all to Kurt that no matter how beautiful she was, she did not have the same level of confidence that Remy did.

He pulled himself from his analysis of their levels of confidence, because it appeared she was winding down, and tried to listen as she went on in her chilly and professional tone about Sammy's possible locations. She said now, mostly to Remy, "This would be an appropriate way to bring Lisa to our turf."

Remy said, "I would personally like to avoid her as much as possible." He sounded as if he had spent the evening yelling at a Saints game, but Kurt didn't find that to be a reasonable explanation as to why he hadn't said much.

Instead, he found his comment selfish and uncalled for and said, in his usual 'I'm smarter than you' tone, "Now, she's the mother, right?"

Remy glanced at him and didn't hide the 'where the fuck have you been' expression. Emma ignored both of them, actually shifting her body slightly towards Anna Marie, and said, "Yes, Lisa is Sammy's mother. And I disagree. Remy, you should be the one to re-interview her. This is your turf. Here, she's more likely to be uncomfortable and more truthful. And if I were to interview her she would be more hostile than usual."

Remy nodded, but didn't look thrilled. He muffled a cough against his wrist, and said, "I'll call her later then."

Agent Quartermain entered the room with a folder and with his long strides he went over to where Remy was sitting and balanced on the balls on his feet, and said something quietly to him. Remy nodded and took the manila folder from him. He looked inside and Clay stood up. To Emma, and he had not yet acknowledged the rookies in the room, which bothered Kurt, he said, "We have an image of Sammy taken at LaGuardia. Time stamp on the photo is almost nineteen hours, yesterday. Doesn't appear he took a flight so far, though."

"Do we have someone going there to see if they can find him?" Emma asked.

"Yes ma'am," Clay replied. "I volunteered to go with them, considering Sammy and I know each other."

Emma nodded, "That would be best. When do you leave?"

"As soon as I'm done telling y'all what's going on."

"Good," Emma replied, as if she had the power to decide that for him. She added, "I want Lisa here ASAP. If Sammy is found, I want to witness their reunion. I would like this reunion to be the wakeup call she needs that something needs to change in their relationship."

Clay nodded, and said, "I'll do y'all a favor and call her on my way out. Tell her we need to talk to her a bit more without giving anything away."

Emma nodded, "Yes. Standard stuff, tell her nothing new, prompt her to come here and maybe that will scare her a bit. Don't even reassure her that Sammy is alright, that is if she even asks. Most likely, she'll ask who she will be speaking to." She glanced in Remy's direction.

Clay left with a nod and the meeting shifted topics. Emma took a seat, and it was Remy's turn to talk, since The Green Clan wasn't in her expertise, but his. However, unlike her, he didn't stand which also bothered Kurt.

After a brief explanation of The Green Clan, and what their expected activities were, he told them what was needed today. "A simple raid. They already know we're coming. Because of this, we'll want to take precaution. In case they've decided to change the status of our relationship with them." He meant in case they changed their minds about accepting his gesture giving them forty eight hours to get rid of the MGH.

Kurt's critical tone once again: "Why would you tell them when you were coming? That seems like a lack of judgment on your part."

Remy could hear the woman who had raised him, Mattie, saying: _If you don't have anything nice to say, chile, it's better to hold your tongue lest it spite your face_. He couldn't exactly say just nothing, so he simply ignored him. "Find out if they put it all up their noses, so to speak, or did something smart and turned a profit."

Kurt laughed, and said, "You're actually condoning they sell the MGH that they've acquired illegally?"

"It's either that or use it," Remy said, with a shrug, doing his best to keep his composure.

Kurt looked at him incredulously. "I am not sure those are the only two options. It seems to me if they were willing to listen to you and accept the forty eight hour deadline, they would also be willing to not do anything else illegal."

Remy attempted to remind himself that Kurt was still inexperienced, but was quickly losing his cool, and knew his lack of exercise this morning was not to blame. "In theory, yeah, that makes sense. But this isn't one of your classes, Wagner, this is real." He did his best to sound calm and rational, as if he were simply telling Kurt what the weather was outside.

Kurt bristled at that, hating to be told that school was not real, and replied with, "Real or not, you could probably benefit from taking or re-taking a few classes. How can you expect to assimilate these mutants if you don't even understand the severity of an action? Or right and wrong? You can't possibly lead them to any sort of understanding if you don't understand it yourself."

Emma stepped in, and said, "Boys, please. Take them out for show and tell at another time. Kurt, what Remy is telling you is that the members of The Green Clan cannot be expected to leave the MGH for us gift wrapped with a note telling us they're sorry for their illegal actions." She glanced at Remy and with those pale blue eyes, sent him a look.

Remy cleared his throat, getting her 'grow up' message loud and clear, and said, "I was giving them a chance to come to the understanding that taking MGH was dangerous. Which is something they understand better than legal versus illegal. I never said selling it was right, I said it was smart. It's a way for them to provide for themselves."

Anna Marie, who had been completely silent the entire time, spoke up and changed the subject. "Do you think they've changed their minds? Do you think they'll offer resistance?" She was concerned with the 'taking precautions' part.

"I don't think they're that foolish, but better safe than sorry, right?" He continued with, "We can only hope that they realize this was a once in a lifetime chance, because I'd rather not put any of them in jail."

Emma said, "We will continue this discussion later today, when we decide who's going where. But, for now, Remy, you should meet with Dr. Grey before Lisa gets here."

Remy simply nodded and left the room.

"As for you two," Emma glanced at Anna Marie and Kurt after Remy had gone, "I want you to read up on The Green Clan to familiarize yourselves with who lives there and how potentially dangerous they could be. I want to make sure we know exactly what to expect if things should go awry. I want possible scenarios, lists of their powers and abilities, and a brief synopsis of how they've handled things in the past. Have the report in my inbox by two p.m." In the order was a silent reminder, to Kurt, that all of the reports they would read were written by Agent R. E. LeBeau.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

The Biomedical and Biological Research Center was one of the most expensive buildings to run in Westchester's S.H.I.E.L.D. compound. Part of that reason was because one of the men in charge of the building was Dr. Hank McCoy. He oversaw the going-ons in both research centers and had a hand in all the grant writing, both federal and private. Not to mention, he was not very efficient or organized, and he spent money rather extravagantly. The result was the building had superb, up-to-date laboratories with all the latest technologies and was also very appealing to look at. The downside was that Hank assumed that with all the interesting equipment surrounding them, his team would want to shift around readily, as he would, trying out everything. Therefore, work went somewhat slowly, because Hank passed out the assignments according to who was available to him, not with any regard to who might be better suited for a job. Hank said repeatedly that all skills are worth learning and he requires passion for knowledge rather than brilliance in his laboratories. Though, he was always quick to add, that both was even better.

Reva Manning had worked for the Westchester headquarters since it was opened and knew everything there was to know about the place, and everything else, it seemed. Some suspected she was psychic, but no one asked and she wasn't telling. She had initially worked in the main office at the Academy, but as soon as Dr. McCoy had seen her, he had to have her for his own building. He was sweet on her and she was an excellent baker. In her fifties, her hair was completely silver-gray and she didn't bother dying it. Today she was dressed in a tailored brown skirt suit and she wore a burnt orange colored blouse, for the fall season, perhaps, considering she also wore dangling leaf earrings, a cheap plastic ring that was shaped like a turkey and a broach that was a cornucopia. Where she got her jewelry no one knew.

The door opened, bringing in a little of the wintry air and her seventh visitor this morning – Agent Remy LeBeau. "Well, if it isn't my favorite Avenger," she said, opening up her sign in book and handing it to him. "How are you honey?" Reva was divorced and was known to be currently dating a professor from The Xavier Institute. That never stopped her from openly flirting with any man she wanted to.

"Better now that I've seen you," he said, with a smile, bending down to sign and initial the book. Indicating the ring, he asked, "Your boyfriend get that for you?"

"Oh, you hush," she said. "He knows by now plastic's not going to work."

Remy laughed. "I thought the size didn't matter the second time around."

"No, that's the first time, honey. When you're all young and dumb and in love. Now, we know what we want, don't we?" Reva was one of the few people that even remembered that Remy had been married once. Or maybe one of the few who felt comfortable talking to him about it. Granted, it was the flash in the pan variety. Husband and wife had not even lived together in holy matrimony for a year. And she moved back to Louisiana before the divorce and annulment were even finalized.

He handed her the book. Somewhat sardonically, and maybe too wise for his age, he said, "Yeah. Save your money and live together in sin."

She laughed too. "Sounds good to me," she said and winked. "Oh, and speaking of sin, I have cookies." Before he could protest, because he would have, she put two homemade double chocolate chip cookies into a napkin, then after a pause, put two more.

Remy took them, because his manners dictated that he should. But Reva knew better. "Don't you give those to Dr. McCoy, now," she warned.

"No ma'am," he reassured her, though lying. He headed in the direction of the elevators.

As an afterthought, she called after him, "I hope you brought your hat and gloves with you. My bones are telling me the snow's going to hold tonight."

Her 'bones' were seldom wrong. "Aw, now why'd you have to go and ruin my day?"

"How long have you lived in New York, handsome? Five, six years? You should be used to it by now."

If he didn't bow out now, he'd never get out. He pressed the elevator button. "Maybe you'll start making me hot chocolate then. Have a nice day, Reva."

For having absolutely no background in science other than the required courses in high school that he had passed only through luck, Remy spent a lot of time in the lab, and knew his way around, though he knew he'd never feel comfortable there. As usual, the work spaces in the large, state-of-the-art biomedical research lab were covered in reference manuals, petri dishes, table centrifuges, ELISA trays and boxes of slides. Elton John played quietly in the background, and most of the white-coated people looked younger than he was. A pretty blonde, who Remy saw quite frequently but had never been formerly introduced to, smiled at him and told him he'd find Dr. Grey in the large microscope room.

Very newly minted Dr. Jean Grey, whose expertise, if any, was in general medicine, was as of late, working to find out how Mutant Growth Hormone worked in the body. And today, she was doing microscopy work on fish scales.

The petite redhead had her back to him, peering into a microscope and adjusting the fine knob to suit her slight nearsightedness. But, she didn't need to hear him or see him to know he had come in. The unplanned empathetic bond between them, stronger for her, was enough. "I hope you're taking a decongestant," she said as a way of greeting. "Before you end up with sinus troubles."

"Thanks, doc," he responded sarcastically, not even questioning how she should know what she knew by now.

She turned, leaning against the sleek and standard black laboratory tables, and gave him a quick once-over, as if she needed to. "How's your thumb?" she asked, taking his hand and examining the wound. It no longer looked as if it were in danger of being infected, but it wasn't pretty.

"It hurts when you poke at it like that," he said. Her index finger pushed at his thumb, testing its mobility, and he noted that it was smaller than his pinky was.

She looked up at him; at barely five-five, she was at least nine inches shorter than he was, and smiled. "Big baby," she said. "Just how big was this monster that bit you? Yay big?" she indicated a height up to her hips.

"She was small, yeah," he said, with a smile of his own, "But her mouth was bigger than yours, if you can imagine."

She nudged him with her elbow, not even hard enough for him to move, and she turned towards the microscope. It was connected to a camera that fed its images to a laptop computer next to it. On the computer screen was an enlarged image of what Remy assumed was a fish scale.

"How close did you examine these?" she asked.

"I pulled them out from under the bed and that was about it. Why?"

"Well, I had to pull a picture of Sammy from the Institute, and then went into his medical files, too. These are his, Remy. Exactly forty six scales that he, or someone, took from his body and stored in a box."

Remy might have responded with 'gross', but he didn't need to, because it could be read from his face. Instead, he said, "Maybe that makes more sense, I don't know. Though it still doesn't explain why the hell he'd do such a thing." Remy coughed against his fist and then slid his hands into his pockets.

"Not my area," Jean replied, which meant she didn't want to think about it. "I can tell you though, that when Emma says 'moldy' it is a bit of a misnomer."

"She was only looking at the pictures," Remy said, somewhat in her defense.

Jean ignored it, and continued, "I suppose that is what she suspected caused the smell Anna Marie said she smelled."

"Yeah. I've been wondering what might have caused her to react the way she did."

"She has a pretty good nose, obviously," Jean said. "You will find on Sammy's arm, or leg, a wound, not all that old that I would bet required a trip to the emergency room. However, I found nothing of that in his medical records."

For clarification, Remy asked, "So, he has been cutting off his scales and apparently got a large chunk of skin with it, and it started decomposing?"

"It doesn't appear that he cut off most of them. Maybe he pulled them out, maybe they fell out. But the cause of the smell is decomposing flesh." She left the room, returning quickly with a Styrofoam box with the cause of the stench inside it. She had put on a fresh pair of gloves and she handed him a pair. He withdrew his hands from his pockets reluctantly and slipped them into the gloves. It never failed; something always itched whenever he put on gloves, usually on his face. He sniffed and resisted the temptation.

Both Jean and Remy had grown up in a coastal environment, Remy, of course in Louisiana and Jean was from Bayville, New York. Her father owned a boat named Lady Grey and Jean had helped him steer it plenty of times. Each had caught a fish and filleted their catch. But, staring at this piece of fish flesh that was decaying was somehow not the same.

With that little index finger, she pointed at slight marks at what remained of the fish flesh. "Hesitation marks. A squeamish cutter, as my dad might say." Inappropriate as it might have sounded, Jean meant it seriously. When she caught her first fish she had hesitated a lot as if trying to spare the dead fish more pain. It would be a much different experience for Sammy, and the hesitation marks were more about not wanting to hurt himself.

"So, this wasn't an accident?" Remy asked, touching the slight marks with his gloved hand. "He meant to cut deeper this time?"

"It appears that way. Unless, by chance, he slipped a few times, when trying to get this particular scale out."

"Do you think it's possible his scales hurt him? Maybe they get ingrown or something?" He turned away from her and stifled a sneeze into the crook of his arm, and then quietly excused himself.

"Bless you, and don't do that," Jean scolded. "Unless you want a sinus infection. To answer your question, I guess it's possible. There's so much we still need to learn about every individual mutant, and some things, like such, we don't think to ask."

She placed the piece of fish flesh with the attached scale back into the Styrofoam box. It didn't look like a takeout box, but when it closed, it sounded like one.

Remy believed it. There was a lot they didn't know, maybe even a lot they would never know. He took off the gloves and tossed them into the trash and then rubbed at his nose. Referring to the Styrofoam box, he said, "I'm glad it's not that close to Lent." He and Jean were also both Catholic. He didn't want to have to eat fish on a regular basis for a while, at least.

She smiled, not nearly as squeamish as she would have been if not for her job. "Me too. But mostly because I'm not ready to give up French fries."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Remy placed a call to Quartermain after he left the labs. "How close are you to LaGuardia?" he asked. He had to meet Lisa in less than twenty minutes and was driving to campus as they talked.

"An hour and a half yet," Clay said. "Why? New info?"

"Disturbing info. Emma seems to think Sammy is mutilating himself because he hates himself. And Jean can't prove differently, though he might just be pulling them out."

Clay thought about it, about Sammy and Lisa and everything he knew about mutants. "It could be. He's a teenager now; life as he knows it will be changing for him shortly, if it hasn't already started."

"I'm going to be pissed if this entire fiasco is about puberty," Remy stated and he was serious.

Clay laughed. "Everything is a fiasco when you're a teenager. You're not that far removed to have forgotten either."

Remy said nothing, just coughed. Clay continued, "Look, don't get the facts straight before we have any. We have a couple of opinions, that's all. You're about to talk to Lisa and hopefully, we'll have Sammy soon. Truthfully, I'll be relieved if the kid is just having problems adjusting, instead of God knows what else it could be. Let's stick to Emma's script for now. It will at least help us get the truth out of Lisa, for once, and maybe it will help hers and Sammy's relationship."

"You're right," Remy said, though he doubted anything could help Sammy and Lisa's relationship. He pulled into a parking spot on the other side of the union building. He didn't want to park near where Lisa would, because Emma wanted Lisa to have almost no time to prepare herself. "We've run around the block looking for the kid for less."

"We certainly have," Clay said. "Here's our one chance, though, to have things swayed towards our side. Make the most of it. I'm about to merge so I'll talk to you when I have Sammy."

"Call Emma, not me," Remy said, and they hung up.

Lisa had obviously been to the Academy before, when she had signed Sammy up for it, and so, the place of their meeting was not totally foreign to her, and yet, it was just enough to keep her off her A-game. Emma was sure to choose a site that was more familiar to Sammy then it was for her, driving home the issue that this world was his; the Institute was where he felt comfortable. And it may be what takes him from her for good.

The Holton-Braddock Social Science Building, The HBSS, had a floor designated to younger students, as a way to introduce them to not only other mutants but to life outside the structured boarding school feel the Institute's companion, The Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters, had.

Lisa had never before set foot in this building and she would never know the extent Emma went to make it exactly how she wanted it. She chose a small round-tabled classroom for the scene. It was a history classroom, suitable for mutant children with a wide range of abilities, but Emma removed anything that made mutants seem otherworldly, like the large revolving chair made of ionized metals that provided energy to some of the mutant kids with energy-type powers. It would appear too science-fiction for Lisa. She switched out the larger chairs with smaller ones, making it give the impression that all of the kids here were as small as Sammy. And she made sure a large poster board of mutant rules was placed on the small display dry-erase in the corner.

Remy was to park exactly where he did and wait inside the Union Building for Lisa to arrive. He was to meet her at her car and walk with her to The HBSS, talking very little and engaging her in only small talk, but not in a happy tone. Emma knew Remy would do as she instructed, but mostly because very little about Lisa made him happy.

He then was to have her sit at one of the two tables in front and he was to sit at the other one, both in the front chairs facing the other. It was to appear a bit like the parent-teacher conferences she had probably skipped when Sammy was little. From there he would guide her into telling him what they needed to know: where Sammy might be and how much of her tale last night was fictional.

Remy leaned against the wall on the inside of the double doors of the union building, where he could see the cars pull in and out of the main parking lot where Lisa was told to meet them. She should have pulled in ten minutes ago, and Remy checked his watch for the third time, wondering if he should call her. However, that was not part of the plan, so he did not.

Eventually, sixteen minutes late, Lisa pulled in rather rapidly into a parking place next to the handicapped spot. Remy zipped up his blue and gray Columbia jacket – he had swapped it with his professional looking pea coat this morning because frankly it was too damn cold to bother with anything less than the one he was now wearing – and met her at her door before she had time to even open it.

On his way to her door he noticed her wiping her face and taking a deep breath. And when he tapped at her window, startling her, and she opened it and got out, he noted she was without makeup and her light brown hair, though freshly washed was without the usual fuss and muss he had become accustomed to.

It could be another ploy for attention, he thought, noticing also her red rimmed and puffy eyes. It wouldn't surprise him if she had sprayed herself in the eyes with pepper spray just to appear sad. But his ability to read people, his empathy, was telling him differently. She seemed distraught and feeble and looked every bit of her thirty one years. And Remy couldn't help but feel instantly sorry for her; regardless of the lying, deceitful woman she usually was. Today, she looked like a mother, terrified because her only child was still missing after the twenty four hour mark.

They were quiet as they walked the short distance to the HBSS building; Lisa did not even try to make small talk, but once they entered the classroom, Remy took charge. He led her to the chair that faced the windows and asked her, "Can I get you something to drink? Something hot, maybe?"

She mustered up a small smile, and she looked even paler now that they were under the fluorescent lights. "I don't think I could," she said quietly. "My stomach," she added weakly.

He nodded, and instead got her a paper cup filled with cold water. He put it in front of her and then sat down in a chair slightly too small for his long legs. Emma had wanted it that way, of course. Though, they sat at different tables, the distance between them wasn't much. That too, was deliberate.

He took off his jacket, because the temperature of the room was overly warm and inviting. Lisa did not remove her coat, and it appeared she had not noticed the shift in temperature from her car to the outside and now here.

Clearing his throat, he lowered his elbows to his knees and clasped his hands in front of his face, as if to appear he was watching something of interest – her. And to appear less threatening, not that that was necessary. Emma was as close as she could be without alerting anyone of her presence, in the conference room two doors down, but linked to Remy's mind. Remy did not approve of this; actually hated it when she linked minds with him, but he had no choice.

Emma did not use the empathetic skills she had naturally, because she considered them useless, but knew from Remy's that Lisa did not find him threatening. She was not feeling much of anything at the moment except sadness.

"Lisa," Remy started, and his voice, partly due to his cold, was quiet, "We need to talk about Sammy." Remy had disagreed with the opening line, but Emma insisted upon it. Both of them knew what the result would be.

Lisa pulled her lips together until they were blanched white. They trembled loose almost instantly and she buried her face into her hands and started crying. Remy stood up, and retrieved the box of tissues from the teacher's desk and placed them in front of her. Sitting there while she cried was more than uncomfortable; it was heart wrenching. But Emma knew what she was doing, she had assured him.

"I don't know where he is," she said through her sobs, as if she realized their meeting here was because they suspected her of something. "Do you think he's…hurt?"

Yesterday, she had no problems saying her 'baby' might be dead, that he was in a gang, that she was a good mother, and now she struggled with the word 'hurt'. Remy wanted to assure her, this small, sobbing woman that they might have a lead to where he was. But he was not allowed, just in case they could not find Sammy at LaGuardia. He cleared his throat again and said, "Lisa, I need you to tell me where you think Sammy might go. If he is upset or angry, does he have a special spot?" Emma had instructed him to connect with her as a mother, to put himself and her as close to the situation as possible. They needed to grasp hard unto her fear while they had the chance.

Lisa looked up at him, wiping her eyes with her hands. "He's never been gone this long," she whispered. "Why would he do that to me?"

Remy handed her a couple of tissues, and tried to steer her away from the subject of herself. "When I was twelve," he heard Emma say inside his head, and found himself saying it to Lisa. "I would take the pirogue out through the swamps. Always to this same soggy lump of land." He would have never actually told her that, hated to be too revealing about his own childhood to anyone, no matter how mundane, but especially her, and he would not have used the words 'soggy lump of land' when referring to the spot where he'd spent his time as a child. He was pissed at Emma for taking liberties with his mind. He had been dealing with Lisa for two years and Emma had never met her. He knew how to make her talk without Emma's instructions.

Lisa said, "I used to take Sammy to this lake. When we lived in the city. He liked to feed the ducks." She started to cry again.

Remy realized Emma knew water was the connector and had used Remy's swamp story to pull that from her. He was still pissed about it, though. "Was this before Sammy went through his physical transformation?" Who the fuck said 'physical transformation'? He warned Emma to stop it.

"Yes, we moved after he turned. He wasn't so interested in what he called 'little kid stuff' anymore after that." She smiled and said, "As if being ten and a mutant suddenly made him a grown up."

Remy already knew this, and his irritation spiked. Sammy was spotted at LaGuardia last night. If he had made it that far – if this was about the city with ducks, he would have been back already. This was not some stupid twelve-year-old-going-back-to-his-childhood thing.

Emma said: _I'm making her realize the love she has for her child, you idiot. Just keep talking to her._ She was, after all, the trained psychologist. She had rearranged her schedule for him, to assist him. The least he could be was grateful.

_You're the one doing all the talking,_ Remy replied, not at all grateful. He coughed then, an almost bronchitis-sounding cough, and he blamed Emma for it.

Lisa said, "You should have gotten yourself the drink." She was quiet, and there was concern in her voice. Emma pegged the woman as far from Florence Nightingale, but also pegged her as a woman who would, under any circumstance, get in line to fuck Remy's brains out. Get in line, sister.

"What?" he asked, between coughs, then understood what she meant, "Oh, right." He coughed again.

"Are you alright?" she asked, with surprisingly none of her sexually charged attitude. But that didn't mean Emma wasn't wrong.

"Yes, I'm fine," he said, dismissing her concern easily. He noticed Emma had stopped controlling his words. "Speaking of growing up," he said, "Before yesterday, when was the last time you saw Sammy?"

"Well," Lisa said, "He's busy with school, you know. I try not to bother him too much."

She had gone back to her usual evasiveness, but Remy knew when to jump at an opportunity. "Sammy's been missing for over twenty four hours now. This is the perfect time to bother with him." The hoarseness to his voice made his words sound harsher than he had intended and he knew Emma was not going to be pleased with that. He heard her say: _Relate with _her_, not Sammy._

She took a drink of her water, sighed and looked down at her now tightly clasped hands. "I didn't see Sammy yesterday. Not at all. This is all my fault, Agent LeBeau. My son is gone and it's all my fault." She started crying again, all her tears today were real, Remy was certain.

The pull in both directions, feeling sorry for her and angry at her were threatening his composure, but he reigned it in, as her sobs turned to hiccups. "Lisa," he said lightly, and touched her knee, "Hey, calm down. Take a deep breath, just relax." He didn't want her to hyperventilate or anything. He would calm her down neutrally, but he would not tell her it wasn't her fault. Because, it most certainly was.

She did as he asked, and after a couple of minutes, the tear flow reduced and her breathing was back to normal. She blew her nose and he retrieved the waste paper basket for her to dispose of her tissues. "You okay?" he asked her.

She nodded, "I'm sorry. This is so hard."

"I realize that. But, we're not finished yet."

"I understand," she replied.

He took that as a sign to resume questioning her. He cleared his throat, and asked, "Why did you call saying Sammy was missing?"

"Because of the smell and the box under his bed. Because he had called me yesterday saying he was going to come visit me." Her voice was rising, and he wondered if she might turn hysterical once again, "I let his call go to voice mail. When I got there, he, well, he must have let himself in, he must have been mad at me, left that for me, so I'd think he was dead." She had replaced sadness with anger, as she continued, "Why would he do that to me? To his own mother?"

Remy was taken aback by her self-centeredness, and yet, still felt sorry for her because she was too goddamned stupid to realize what a mess she had made of that kid. And too goddamned stupid to realize not everything in Sammy's life was about his attention-sucking mother.

He coughed again, and gave himself a moment to figure out how to play nice. "Has he ever done something like this before? Acted out when he was angry? Not in words so much as some thoughtless action, like he did yesterday." Saying 'thoughtless action' was smooth on his part. As if he was on her side.

"No, never. Never." She was adamant in her answer, and Remy believed her sincerity.

He thought about what he had asked her at the very beginning, when they were on the phone. Was Sammy having any problems with friends? An upcoming test? He reiterated those questions now. "Why do you think Sammy was coming over to visit you? Obviously not as a surprise, because he told you beforehand."

"I didn't receive it right away," she said quickly, as if that somehow lessened what she had done.

Remy ignored her and repeated, "Did he have something in mind for the two of you? Did he have to talk to you about something?"

"I don't know," Lisa said. "I didn't answer the phone." Her brutal honestly at this point was almost comical. And she didn't see it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Clay made it to LaGuardia Airport and met the two agents who had started out before he did – when he was telling Emma and Remy his plans. Agents Cecilia Reyes and Jacob Ghinesberg informed him that Sammy had not left the airport, or at least not through normal or legal means. He also had not booked a flight for anytime later that day. Clay, because he knew Sammy, figured the kid was overwhelmed at this point, and had decided to stay at the airport; after all, there was food and shelter.

To Reyes and Ghinesberg he said, "Check with the upper management. Tell them to make sure their employees know there is a missing child, and give them his picture. Also, explain he is not dangerous."

"Where will you be?" Agent Reyes asked. She was not new to the game, had been recruited from the FBI's Denver office for her superb work in a murder-suicide case there that involved a mutant who wanted to express his hate for humanity. With her thick, dark hair in a low ponytail that reached halfway down her back, and her tall and sturdy build, she often took command of anything she desired.

"Checking out the menus," Clay replied, "It's almost lunch time, after all."

Reyes knew what he meant, but Ghinesberg, a new recruit, and one that Clay thought was a questionable choice, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and said, "I think we'll have time for lunch afterwards, sir."

"Sammy's probably hungry now," Reyes explained.

"Oh, right," Ghinesberg said and swallowed hard, as if he thought he might be in trouble.

"Keep me posted," Clay said, and headed towards the Chinese food booth.

Emma listened as Remy asked her what Sammy's voicemail said. Lisa didn't know exactly, she said, but he could listen to it.

There was a beep, and then twelve year old Sammy's voice came on the line. "Hey mom, maybe we can have lunch today. I'm on the bus now, so will be there pretty soon. Love you."

As Lisa once again broke down, because no one was telling her where Sammy was, Emma thought about the message. Sammy sounded normal, not exuberantly happy, and not depressed either. So, what could have happened from the time he left the message until he arrived at her house and decided to, as Lisa put it, 'leave that stuff for her to see'.

Furthermore, according to Remy, or his head, rather, Jean had told him the scales were not all removed at the same time, but over a period of a week to two weeks. Enough time for the piece of flesh grotesquely attached to one of the scales to start to stink. But Sammy had not been home for that long. Had he carried the scales with him? And why, if he wasn't feeling depressed yesterday?

It seemed obvious that he had been struggling with something over the past two weeks to cause his scale removal in the first place. She couldn't think of another reason, anyways.

To Remy, she said, _I want to see if Sammy has been receiving any counseling recently. And maybe someone should interview his roommate._

Remy thought back, _Send either Anna Marie or Kurt to talk to the roommate. We're getting nowhere here. Can I send her home?_

_Their reunion is important. It must be done here. _Emma was adamant that this should happen in Sammy's turf. It didn't seem to matter what Remy said about it.

_Then why don't you hold her hand while she's crying her eyes out? She could benefit from a psychologist, instead of an interrogator._

Emma had always been more of a forensic psychologist, someone who gave an analysis after something had happened, and not so much someone who listened to real time people's problems. But, Remy was right, and honestly, she wanted a chance to talk to this woman anyways. To him, she said, _Explain to her who I am, that I'll help her through her grief or something._

Chinese booth, burger booth, a more upscale restaurant, and finally, the pizza place. He flashed his S.H.I.E.L.D. badge at the customers in line, which would send him to the front, though no one was happy about it. Suspicions of the government agencies ran high these days, and one woman glared at him and yanked her child close to her as if Clay might arrest either one of them right then and there.

The kid behind the counter, and Clay wondered if he were even out of high school, had a nametag that read 'Chuck'. To the skinny, pimply faced kid, Clay said, "Good morning, Chuck. Have you seen this kid?" He slid over Sammy's school picture.

Chuck glanced at the picture, then did a double take. In a nervous, and squeaky voice, he said, "No, sir. I would remember him if I did. I just got here. You should ask Bea. She's been here since five."

"And where can I find her?" Clay asked Chuck.

"Oh, she works in the kitchen. I'll get her." Chuck went behind the menu signs and less than ten seconds later, a short, pudgy woman that was closer to Clay's age, came around the corner and wiped her hands on her apron.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asked, and Clay could hear the Bronx in her voice.

"Have you seen this kid?" he asked, showing the picture of Sammy to her.

"Come with me," she said simply. She motioned that he should walk around the counter and to the kitchen with her.

She opened up the door to the tiny manager's office and there was Sammy, asleep on the floor, on top of his winter coat. Bea talked much quieter now, out of respect, "Early morning janitor found him in the bathroom. I told him I'd see to it he went home."

There was an empty muffin wrapper and an empty bottle of orange juice. Bea noticed Clay noticing it. "Short kid like that needs all the nutrients he can get," she replied and that Bronx accent softened.

"Thank you, Bea," Clay said. "I'll take him off your hands."

She wasn't quite ready to leave, and continued with, "He's no trouble. It's all in the eyes, you know. He's the same as any other kid."

Clay wouldn't tell her that he'd seen some kids with snake eyes or other reptilian-type eyes that made it hard to see the humanity in the kid. He also wouldn't tell her that some of the mutant kids had no sense of civilization and acted much more like animals. Sammy, at least, with his big eyes and small stature elicited a response in people that was more similar to how a person feels when they look at a stray dog or cat. They easily feel sorry for him. To Bea, though, he simply nodded his head, as if to convey he felt exactly the same way as she did. For the most part, anyways, he did.

Her voice was different now, almost protective, and a bit pained as she said, "Got one just like him at home."

For the eight years prior to him serving for S.H.I.E.L.D., Clay had worked first for the US military and also as a militant consultant for the FBI. Both were desk jobs that taught him there were other things to be carried in your utility belt other than his beloved guns and ammo. For people like Bea who needed his help, but not his guns. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his card and handed it to her. "Give me a call, and I'll connect you to someone at The Xavier Institute. And if you're interested, I will personally give you and your child a tour of the place."

She smiled, her eyes watering, Clay suspected it was the first time she had told someone about her child. She tucked the card into her pocket. "Thank you, Agent Quartermain," she replied, having read his name off the card, and then left the room, closing the door behind her.

Clay bent down and gently shook Sammy's shoulder. He was probably the size of an eight year old, and it led to fights with kids he could never win against and endless tormenting. Clay knew boys could be rough if you weren't as big or as strong as they were. It was something Bridget never would understand when he would be nervous before every one of his son's annual physicals. She would shake her head and laugh when he would pace and wring his hands. But, he had needed the reassurance that his boys would not get the same torment that boys like Sammy, boys that were different, received at the hands of others.

Sammy opened those large fish eyes and was taken aback at who was crouched next to him. "Clay?" he questioned, as if he were dreaming. "What are you doing here?"

"This is my second job," he said, with a smile.

Sammy laughed just a little. A good sign. But, it faded fast as reality set in. He never saw Clay unless he or his mom were in trouble. "I've got to go home now, huh?"

"Well, you can't stay here, son," Clay reminded him. "Though I think Bea might keep feeding you." He stood up and Sammy did, too. "How about we get some pizza to go?"

Remy again went through the motions and handed her some tissues. She took them gratefully, and said, "I must look a mess."

Remy didn't feel like being funny or charming, so he said nothing, ignoring that his manners dictated otherwise.

Lisa clenched her hands tightly over the soggy tissues. "I should have answered the phone. I should have been there for him."

He didn't ask if it was because she knew what was going on in her son's life. And he didn't tell her that yes, she should have. He fought off a sneeze and said, "I've set up an appointment for you with a psychologist."

Lisa's eyes widened. "I don't need a shrink."

She was teetering towards angry, and Remy didn't want to push her further. Sometimes, he wondered if she was bipolar. "You need to talk with someone who is qualified to help you deal with what's going on with Sammy. Until we know more, this waiting period will be hard to get through. Just give her a chance. She's very good."

Lisa shook her head; and Remy realized she was scared. He suspected it was because she knew a shrink wouldn't let her off the hook as easily. They would be harder to deceive.

"You won't have to lie down on a couch and tell her all your problems. You'll have lunch, and you'll talk, that's all." Emma hadn't been planning on a lunch date with Lisa, and Remy had done that on purpose. He knew she'd be scrolling through her phone to find the quickest delivery.

Lisa acquiesced, with a small nod. "Maybe it would be nice to talk to someone." She was trusting him, which he should not take lightly, and never did.

Remy's phone buzzed then, and he was happy to be finished with this conversation. "I have to take this."

"Is it about my Sammy?" she asked, with enough hope in her voice to break his heart.

It was Clay, so yes, it was. But, Remy said, because he had to, "No. It isn't. But, don't worry, none of us have given up."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

The call was short, a simple conversation between partners that gave away nothing to the passenger beside him, happily eating his cheese pizza. Clay ended the call and put his phone on the dashboard mount, a nice adhesive-type thing that Travis had got him for Christmas last year. He didn't lose his phone half as much as he used to.

"Who was that?" Sammy asked, with the tactless non-manners most kids had these days.

"Agent LeBeau," Clay responded neutrally, because he was very used to it. "He's with your mom. Or was, anyways."

Sammy shrugged forcefully, and said sullenly, "I don't care."

Touchy subject, apparently. "You like rock music or country?" he asked, steering towards friendlier seas.

"Rock," Sammy said, with an easier tone. Clay wasn't making him mad, but he might if he continued to talk about his mom.

Clay turned on the radio and didn't recognize the used up voice of the lead singer, and didn't understand the lyrics. But, he'd gotten used to that over the years, too. Sammy began nodding his head to the beat after a few moments and continued chewing on his pizza as if nothing were wrong.

"Hey, Sammy?" Clay said, after he let him relax, and after he was finished eating, "You know we need to have a talk, right?"

"Yeah, I get it. I'm in trouble because I ran away." He rushed his words, but still managed to sound bored at the same time. Teenagers.

"Now I didn't say that, did I?" Clay asked him, point blank.

Sammy looked over at him, and watched him watching the road. "No, I guess not."

"Why don't we start with what's been bothering you as of late. These past few weeks."

Sammy shrugged. "Nothing," he replied.

"Okay," Clay said. "How about you ask me something first?"

"Don't treat me like a kid," Sammy said and he sounded both angry and hurt.

"How would you like me to treat you?" Clay asked. "Like a teenager or a young adult?"

"Is there a difference?" Sammy asked, before he could put away his curiosity.

"Sure is," Clay said. "A teenager, in my experience, at least, is someone who's dealing with a lot of pent up issues, you know what I mean," he looked over at Sammy, and saw he was listening, "School work, girls, sports teams, the idea that they're not little kids anymore and puberty, to name but a few."

"So what's a young adult?" Sammy asked, and Clay saw that he was hoping to fall into that category.

"A young adult is someone who's dealing with those things, too, but has the wherewithal to let somebody help them through it. See what I mean?"

"Yes," Sammy said, with a sigh.

"So, which one are you?" Clay asked him.

"It's all stupid shit, though," Sammy said. "I don't really think anyone else would care."

If Clay's sons had sworn at twelve, he would have slapped them. And Bridget would have washed their mouths out. Heck, they would have the same reaction if their kids did it at any age. He reminded himself that Sammy's mouth was not his responsibility, and he said, "How do you know that if they don't know about it? You're not psychic, are you?"

Sammy sighed again, as if it was that hardest thing in the world to discuss his life with someone. "My mom ditched me for some guy. She does that a lot you know. And I kinda wanted to talk to her."

"That's not fair to you," Clay replied. "Did you want to spend time with your mom because you missed her, or because you needed advice or something?"

"I don't know," Sammy said. "I guess everything just sucks right now." He looked out the window and Clay knew he was trying to compose himself. Poor kid.

"Why's that?" Clay pushed. "Are you having trouble at school?"

Sammy shrugged again; a teenager's most used body movement, that and the eye-roll. "Not really in class. Like math sucks, but the teacher is cool."

"That's good," Clay said, and didn't push any further.

"Do you think I'll ever grow?" Sammy asked, rather suddenly, his fears finally out in the open. What he had needed to share with his mother. His short, thin mother.

"Taller you mean?" Clay asked, and felt a sense of déjà vu, and remembered it was because he had thought about this earlier. Sammy was small, and boys didn't want to be small.

"Yeah, I hate being short."

"You have plenty of time to grow. More than ten years still," Clay reassured him, though he couldn't possibly know if Sammy ever would.

"Really?" Sammy asked. Ten years seemed like a century to a twelve year old.

"You've just begun all that," Clay said, "Trust me. Some boys start growing later, others start earlier. Be patient and don't drink coffee."

"Why not?" Sammy sounded curious again, like a kid and not a teen.

"My mama always told me it'd stunt my growth." Clay was finding it hard to believe that Sammy would run away or remove his scales simply because he was upset he was short. He wondered how well the kid had learned to hide things, to deceive, like his mother did so well. Yet, he also wondered if maybe Sammy was just ultra-sensitive because of the way he had grown up. Either way, it was a sad situation that Clay knew he could not solve on his own.

"Why does it do that?" Sammy asked, his young voice, not yet made unstable by puberty, interrupted Clay's dark thoughts.

"What's that?" Clay asked, realizing he wasn't paying attention.

"Why does coffee stunt your growth? Why did your mom tell you that?"

"To be honest, I don't know why it would, but I suspect my mama just didn't want me to drink it. It's just one of those old wives' tales."

"What are those?" Sammy asked.

Clay smiled, just a little. For a moment, he wouldn't worry about Sammy's past or the sense that he was probably bullied mercilessly at school, even among those who were different just like he was. For now, he'd just sit back and enjoy the twenty question routine all kids used, either because they couldn't help themselves or because they wanted to deflect some other emotion from getting too overwhelming. Soon enough, he and Sammy would be back in Salem, and facing reality. But not right yet. "An old wives' tale is something that got started a long time ago, based on superstition or beliefs at the time, that weren't necessarily proven to be true."

His phone rang then, and it was Bridget. "Hey, honey, can I call you back? Yeah, I'm kind of in the middle of something important." He knew Bridget wouldn't be mad at him for it, because of their twenty four hour rule. She was only allowed to stew for a day and he was only allowed to avoid an issue for a day. He hung up and put the phone back on Travis's gift to him.

He could tell Sammy felt good about the comment and that was something he could later explain to Bridget. To Sammy, he said, "Sorry about that. Now, where were we?"

The rookie corridor, more of a partitioning that separated them and two secretaries from everyone else, was where Anna Marie and Kurt had their desks. Remy passed by the secretaries, waving, but not even stopping to pet Trust, even though her tail thumped the floor at his sight. He couldn't yet make himself comfortable around Ashley, Trust's owner, and so, he simply avoided her.

He was going to avoid a lot of things within the next few hours. Things like good advice from both Clay and Emma, the email he had received from Dr. Bridges less than an hour ago and most certainly the reunion with Sammy and Lisa. It wasn't something he needed to see, or wanted to see. He had seen enough of her and frankly, couldn't waste anymore of his emotional energy on why a kid would run away from a bad home or cut into his own flesh. So, he would head to the Morlock tunnels and meet with the Green Clan. At least he would be smart enough to take the rookies with him.

Kurt and Anna Marie, because they both worked together, had their desks very close, and the closer Remy got to them, the more he smelled the familiar smell – of coffee and nail polish. Or maybe he just imagined it; his nose wasn't that trustworthy these days. Kurt, because he was nocturnal, drank a lot of coffee, and Anna Marie's nervous finger-picking habit mixed with her old-time southern beliefs of keeping oneself always in pristine condition made her go through a lot of nail polish. He could just hear his sister-in-law clicking her teeth about chipped nails and not blotting your face.

Sure enough, Anna Marie was the epitome of a well put together Southern woman, with her good posture and her ankles crossed slightly to one side of the chair. And her makeup was perfect, even the bright red lipstick did not seem overdone. She was typing in that delicate way women do when their nails are drying.

Kurt, for his part, was sitting with coffee mug in hand and one ankle propped on a knee, probably talking more about philosophy than doing any actual work. A coffee pot was plugged in behind him and still had one more cup left it looked like. How many times he had refilled it, Remy didn't want to know – he didn't drink coffee ever.

Both rookies turned their heads at his arrival, and Anna Marie motioned to a report on the corner of her neat desk. "This is the report Dr. Frost wanted us to write. About the Green Clan."

He picked it up and leafed through it, perusing their key points quickly, because it was information he knew very well. He knew why Emma had instructed them to write it. Putting it back down where he'd got it, he said, "You'll need field clothes, suitable for cold weather, and don't wear anything you don't want stolen."

He was already dressed in his full body black tactical field uniform. It wasn't completely zipped up, and the cold gear Under Armour running shirt was visible; Remy preferred to wear his own cold weather gear instead of the ones provided by S.H.I.E.L.D., because he thought they were warmer and easier to layer. Most likely, he was wearing another lighter one underneath. The silver cross necklace he always wore was visible now, but wouldn't be once he zipped up.

"We're going to the Morlock tunnels now?" Kurt asked, and Remy was surprised he wasn't annoyed, simply curious.

"It's better we're there before it's too dark," Remy explained. It was already nearly two o'clock and the sun would set in three and a half to four hours. The drive would take them approximately two.

"Without Agent Quartermain?" Anna Marie asked and those pretty green eyes were wide with skepticism and fear.

It was obvious she felt very safe with Clay. But then, a girl who was raised in backwater, Mississippi with a set of parents whose views were that of an American redneck would feel very safe with Clay Quartermain and his simple, black and white ways of what was right and what was wrong. No matter that Remy's mutant abilities were just as dangerous as a gun, maybe more since he made explosives with his fingers. And no matter that Kurt's mutant abilities were probably more protective than a gun would be. It didn't even seem to matter that Anna Marie herself could damn well take care of a situation, with her own deadly bare hands. Remy knew she would always feel safe with any man who reminded her of the father who hated her. Men like Clay. Men like Logan. And, most specifically, not men like him.

"I think teleportation is just as quick as a bullet if it comes to that," he responded mildly, without giving away what he felt. What he was suggesting, though, he hoped was not taken lightly by Kurt. He was giving the arrogant, theory-influenced rookie a chance to put his money where his mouth is, giving him a chance to step up and play the role that Clay routinely played. And by doing so, it was saying he would trust him.

Anna Marie said, "I don't think that's a good idea." She wasn't as willing to put her trust in anyone, let alone someone with the same amount of experience as herself. No, only older, straightforward or gruff men got her trust immediately. Even if that trust was shaky, and not exactly grounded in any real reason why that trust might be warranted. It was like, to Remy, at least, protecting yourself from robbers by hiring a robber as a bodyguard. It made him wonder if the Mr. Clean guy from East Salem Apartments yesterday was older and straightforward. Or maybe he was just some redneck that she obviously idolized because of her daddy issues.

"You don't have to come," Remy replied, not as mildly now, and it was obvious to Kurt that something was under the surface.

"You might need my help," she said, and her nose upturned in that annoying way of hers. That 'I'm going to pick a fight with you, just because I can' way of hers that Remy had to remind himself didn't bother him nearly as much as Kurt's piety did. Her eyes didn't drop from his as she continued, in that haughty tone, always braver when she was being cantankerous, when her feelings were hurt. "After all, you are a bit compromised."

Whether she meant because he would be sans Clay or because he was sick or because he wasn't Logan, he didn't know, but it pissed him off. He didn't have time to remind himself that it was probably just because he hadn't run today, before he said, rather rudely, "Meet me in the carport in twenty minutes if you're coming. And if I were you, I'd go for demure. Otherwise, you'll be an easy target."

Emma wasn't surprised to learn that Remy would not be handling the meeting between Lisa and Sammy, and she was also not surprised to learn he had decided to go to the Green Clan with only Kurt and Anna Marie. But Clay sure was.

He watched as Emma left the classroom in the HBSS and came towards him. She smiled thinly at Sammy and said, "Sammy, stay here for a minute, will you, dear?"

Sammy shrugged and said, "Sure." He wasn't all that ready to meet his mother anyways.

To Clay, she said, "Come with me for a minute." He followed her into the conference room where she had been when Remy was with Lisa.

"What's going on? Is Lisa still here?" Clay asked as Emma closed the door only partially.

"Yes, she is," Emma replied. "We will go through the reunion as planned, and I will do all of the documentation later tonight."

The original plan was to have Emma watch the entire thing from here, the conference room, while Clay and Remy brought Sammy to his mother. "Where's Remy at?" His first thought was that he'd gone home sick, but figured that would take a lot more than a cold.

If Emma was mad it didn't show on her face, but she was nearly monotone as she said, "I'm sure you can guess. I'll give you a hint and tell you he's an idiot."

"So he went to the sewers then?"

"Yes, he did."

Clay nodded, figuring it wasn't worth it to be angry or upset. He had a good idea why Remy had not followed Emma's orders, and it had nothing to do with insubordination, though he wasn't under her command. "Let's take Sammy to his mother," was all he said to Emma. She was a smart young woman; she would figure it out eventually.

Kurt and Anna Marie did not keep him waiting as they met him at the carport dressed exactly as he had instructed in their black tactical uniforms with cold weather gear underneath and nothing of value visible. Anna Marie had pulled back her hair and had wiped off the red lipstick, now appearing much younger and she hoped not an easy target. She supposed that's what he had been referring to, as if she was some sort of prostitute. Kurt had added a pistol to his utility belt, though he much preferred the look and feel of a sword. "Just in case," he said quietly, almost respectfully. "I read in your reports they respond well to fear."

Remy knew when he was being appeased, and simply nodded and got in the driver's seat. He realized exactly what was happening at the HBSS building – he was pretty certain he could have written a script. It pissed him off that avoiding the scene didn't help him avoid the feelings associated with it. Lisa would pin it all on a twelve year old kid who, for some strange reason, loved his mother unconditionally even though it was not deserved. Lisa would cry and rage and tell Sammy all about her feelings. And she would not ask him why he left, or what was the matter, or even acknowledge he had feelings, too. Much less, that the reason he left in the first place was because of her. She would probably blame the school.

_But, sure, go ahead, Emma, make him sit through that. Instead of just telling Lisa that he was safe in his dorm room, like I suggested, make the kid face his monster of a mother and let her tear into him. Just so you can have the facts, an exact transcript. But, don't take my word for it. _

Kurt motioned that Anna Marie should sit up front. "Your legs are longer than mine, Kurt," she said, "You go on ahead."

He smiled, just slightly, and said, "You owe me one."

"I most certainly do not," she replied, upturning her nose. She climbed in the back seat of the car. Kurt got up front, thinking he should perhaps pray for strength first.

Emma walked into the room first, giving Lisa only a second of preparation, as she said, "We found him." There wasn't enough time for the manipulative Lisa to plan a response, an emotion or even a question as Clay walked in with Sammy close behind him.

Lisa ran over to her son and wrapped her arms around him, sobbing uncontrollably for the umpteenth time that day. Sammy stood stiff in her arms, and Emma knew he wanted to pull away from her and he also wanted to hug her back. He did neither though as she sobbed for probably three solid minutes. A wonderful performance if ever there was one, Clay couldn't help but think.

Lisa leaned back then, gripping one of Sammy's arms in each of her hands and looked him up and down as if it had been weeks since she had seen him last. Clay already figured out what she would say, because like Remy, he knew Lisa well. And so, he watched Emma as Lisa began her tirade.

"How could you do this to me?" she asked him, her voice high-pitched and hurt. "Why would you? Sammy, I thought something awful had happened to you."

Clay had his orders, and he would follow them, but he couldn't help thinking what Remy might have said. _How could you do this to _him_, Lisa? Why don't you own up to something for once in your life?_ Of course, it would be peppered with swear words if Remy had actually said it.

Emma listened carefully as Sammy responded to his mother, his voice wooden and hollow. "Sorry. Nothing happened, mom. I was just mad."

"Well, how do you think I felt?" Lisa asked him, and her tone was accusatory and self-important. "I was mad, too. I was more than mad, Sammy. I was hurt and scared."

Clay saw the moment Emma realized why Remy had not come.

Her cold blue eyes switched from mother to son and she knew. It was for this. He knew he wouldn't have handled himself well, and he had decided to spare himself from it. Not that that made things right. But she had what she needed now, though, and figured she would find someone to counsel Lisa and Sammy, separately, of course.

"Before I take Sammy back to his dorm," she interrupted what should have been a very different reunion, "should I give you two a moment alone?"

Lisa looked up at the woman she had spent over two hours talking to. The woman who had listened to her problems and gave her the sympathy she deserved. And now she was taking her son away as if she hadn't heard a damned thing Lisa had told her. As if this woman assumed she was a bad mother. She would take him back as if she knew what was good for him. Back to the school, the very place he ran from. "Why does he have to go back to this place? He ran away from it for a reason." She looked at her son, her eyes boring into his and her voice went from angry to syrupy sweet as she said, "You don't want to go back there, do you baby?"

Clay touched Sammy's tense shoulder; his mother's hands were still gripping into his arms. He said quietly, calmly, "He's a young adult now; why don't we talk to him, instead of around him. Sammy, what do you want to do?"

Sammy said in a small, yet firm voice, "I want to stay at the school." He did not address his mother, but had directed it towards Clay, who he felt comfortable with.

Lisa released him as if he were a hot potato. She stood up and clenched her fists at her sides. "Fine. I guess your own mother doesn't get a say anymore. As if nothing I've ever done for you was worth a shit."

Sammy looked at the floor, his eyes welling up with tears, and Clay took Lisa by the arm, calmly, carefully, and said, "I'll walk you to your car, ma'am."


	11. Chapter 11

The three of them drove out of the compound before anyone spoke. The only sound was Remy occasionally sniffling and clearing his throat. Finally, Kurt could take it no longer. He figured that Remy wasn't solely angry at either he or Anna Marie and it probably had to do with the bigger picture. Even so, it made it even harder to get along with him. He said, "The main entrance to the Green Clan is on one-sixteenth street, right? And we're taking that one because they already know we're coming?"

"That's right," Remy replied and it almost sounded as if he were challenging Kurt to question him, as he had done earlier. "All we'll need to do is go through their homes, looking for any evidence of any remaining MGH." He paused to cough, "I don't care about empty vials, paraphernalia, or anyone who is visibly high, so long as they're not dangerous or in need of medical attention. But, if we see anything that has not been used, anything to indicate they're storing it, it's over."

"How many houses are there?" Kurt asked, and hoped it wasn't something he should have remembered. _The devils in the details_ had never been his favorite expression; he didn't often like to look for the devil.

"Nine," Remy replied. "It's common among mutant communities to place the strongest, most valuable members in the biggest and best houses. Same goes here, so we'll start there. Also, we do have allies among them, in the lesser houses, led by a kid named Dirk." Whether he was trying to soothe their nerves or was just telling them need-to-know information, it wasn't obvious.

"Why wouldn't they evenly distribute their strongest members among all of their dwellings?" Kurt asked and he often asked somewhat philosophical questions when he was uncomfortable.

Remy shrugged, "Maybe they don't care if the weaker members die off, maybe it's some kind of respect thing. They earned it by being genetically superior so they get the best provisions." He coughed again, and said, "I only report what I see. I'm not a psychologist. And you won't catch any of them down there getting their hands dirty."

Apparently, he was angry with Emma, Kurt deduced, and he wasn't sure what else he might say, for fear of getting his head bitten off. But, before he could stop his smart mouth, he said, "It's the same with MacTaggert Hall. No one wants to spend time there, but everyone has an opinion about how those mutants should be treated."

Remy had done his research on the two rookies and he had known Kurt spent some time in MacTaggert Hall, the dorm hall at the Institute designated for mutants who were way weird and needed extra accommodations. Most of these mutants were physically mutated, like Kurt, but they could not function well, or even normally, as Kurt could. Remy could understand what drove Kurt to give a damn about these mutants, and he treaded carefully as he responded, "I didn't realize there were complaints about the way they were treated."

"Not written ones," Kurt replied and he couldn't believe he had even started this topic. Certainly not with someone like Remy, who couldn't possibly understand what it would be like to be signaled out because of the way he looked or the things he needed to function.

Remy heard and felt the bitterness in Kurt's voice and passed his dark brown eyes over him quickly. He wasn't sure what he might say, so he said nothing, letting Kurt assume what he would. Probably nothing good.

Kurt figured Remy wouldn't know whether or not anyone complained in a dorm he had never been in. Remy may have been the head of a group that documented the woes of the less fortunate and assisted them in their assimilation, but that didn't mean he could ever actually get it. He hadn't grown up poor, he had never been ugly, he had never wanted for anything, and so really, how could he relate? All he had was empathy, which Kurt honestly thought was bullshit, and more of a selfish reaction to another's emotion than it was useful. The only thing Remy probably, honestly, felt was pity. And perhaps disgust. However, Kurt supposed, taking a moment to calm himself, his bitterness would not be as helpful as his ability to be better than that. Better than Remy. He could actually relate with these Morlocks; he was ugly, had been homeless and had felt what want was. He would do this job well.

Remy drove much faster than Clay and they made good time on their way to the Green Clan's dwellings. He pulled against the curb as close as he could get to the subway's entrance, only a mere three blocks away. Because of the close quarters in the SUV, Remy turned towards the window and stifled two successive sneezes. "Jesus, excuse me," he said, and he wondered then if Jean was right about that sinus infection because his head hurt from his forehead to his cheekbones. He couldn't wait until the next couple of days were over with, then maybe he could get a decent night's sleep.

Exiting the car, he, Anna Marie and Kurt walked down the stairs and to the old aqueduct shed as he had done a little over forty eight hours ago – though it seemed like a week ago, at least.

If Anna Marie was bothered by the smell of rotting fish, he wondered what her reaction might be to the general stink of the underprivileged. Before they entered, he said to her, "Do your best to keep a poker face. If they see your disgust they won't take as kindly to you."

She nodded almost solemnly. He continued with, "The most important thing to remember is that we're in their territory now. They can see better than we can, keep your flashlight at the ready, but aim it at the ground."

Kurt, whose eyes were able to see perfectly in the darkness, said, "You use it as a weapon, don't you?"

Remy gauged Kurt's tone before he answered. Once again, Kurt was not being condescending. "If I have to," he said. He opened the door to the maintenance shed, and he went in before them.

New York City had been a culture shock to the small southern town raised Anna Marie – but this was indescribable and nothing like she had imagined it would be as they drove here. She had thought that it would be hard to fit through what she assumed were winding tunnels, but there was enough room for even Remy to stand upright. She had also assumed that it would contain mutants just sitting there like beggars on the street, but at first glance she saw no one.

Then, completely round yellow eyes popped out in front of her. She swallowed a scream, and managed only a little squeak. The orbs closed and then opened, and they scanned the three agents from head to toe.

And then Remy spoke to it. "Hey, Randi," he said quietly to the small mutant with eyes that took up most of her face.

As Anna Marie's eyes adjusted to the dark, the eyes became part of a form. 'Randi' was ugly, hardly humanoid, with large yellow eyes, and an odd-shaped head. Like a flat face attached to a lump that started behind the eyes and nose, leaving no forehead or crown of the head. Randi had a small beak of a nose and lips that were the same color as the rest of the face was and were very small. His or her teeth were tiny and widely spaced and there was no neck to speak of, just folds of skin that drifted into the torso. All of the existing extremities, and there were five of them, were the same size and not distinguishable as arms or legs.

"Randi with an 'I'," the mutant responded in a singsong voice – apparently, Randi was a she – as she flapped an arm or leg at Remy. Her voice was as ugly as she was, and sounded as if it was hardly in use with its squeaks and tears. It managed to sound both monotone and happy at the same time.

Remy smiled and continued along. During a census he had taken his first year in the MCRT, he had asked Randi how to spell her name, by asking, "Randi with an 'i' or a 'y'?" He couldn't have known at the time that she did not know anything beyond what she called herself and the ability to recognize faces. As far as he can figure now, there's no reason she should be able to do even that, considering she doesn't seem to have room in her head for a brain big enough to support speech or facial recognition. She relies mostly on instinct and belongs to no tribe or clan or family. She is alone and will probably always be alone. But, for whatever reason, when Remy asked her how to spell her name, she was able to mimic part of what he said and always repeats that same phrase whenever he sees her.

Kurt looked at Anna Marie and together they were wide-eyed. They passed through what appeared to be a makeshift door frame, maybe for structural reasons. The wet, moldy smell that they had smelled upon entering was diminished slightly as their visibility heightened. At their feet, lining the walls were evenly spaced bottles with candles wedged partially inside, reminding them of what Italian restaurants did sometimes.

Between most of the lights were little carts holding things from blankets to pieces of glass. Various mutants were either sitting by the carts, as if watching them or were sifting through them. One of the sitting mutants reached out towards them, and like a magician, produced an interesting-looking pale pink flower seemingly out of thin air. He extended his hand further, nearly touching Anna Marie's ankle with it.

"Ignore him," Remy replied, without turning around.

Anna Marie did as she was told and stepped around the man and his pretty creation. He made a sound that perhaps qualified as speech and pushed his flower towards her.

Before Anna Marie could bend down to touch it, Remy stepped on it and flashed his light into the mutants eyes, earning a hiss. To Anna Marie, he said, "He means well, but those flowers are poisonous." He was glad now that he had told her to 'go for demure' earlier, because he wasn't sure it would have stopped with the flower.

If this was a tour, he would have explained that these mutants, like Randi, belonged to no one; they were the castaways among a castaway society. He added, sensing her discomfort, "We're almost there."

The green paint that signaled their arrival wasn't what Kurt had expected as a marker for a clan. He supposed he had expected some sort of gang symbol or some ancient insignia, as opposed to three not quite parallel slashes on another half-rotted door-frame. "This is it?" he asked.

Remy simply nodded and knocked on the wood part of Red's house.

Two whole minutes passed, which to Kurt seemed like an eternity, but Remy didn't seem fazed by it. Kurt had read the description of Red, but words on paper didn't do the mutant justice. Six foot four or five, with a chest more than double the width of his own, Red was the biggest unfriendly mutant he had ever seen. Colossus, or Piotr Rasputin, Kurt's friend, would dwarf Red, but Kurt didn't find Piotr scary anymore.

Also, Colossus had only two arms and well, looked normal. Red was troll-like, with longish arms and squat, thick legs. He reminded Kurt of something from The Lord of The Rings trilogy; movies he had thoroughly enjoyed. Kurt felt a surge of excitement, belying the fear he had felt at first. He watched as Red crossed all four of his arms at his chest and looked at Remy. "What do you want?" he asked him, his voice gruff and a deep baritone.

Again, Remy didn't seem scared or fazed. Mostly annoyed. "You know what I want Red. Your cooperation." Remy expected Red to act manly and petulant, trying to show his clan that he wasn't scared of the prospect of any of them going to prison. He just hoped it didn't come to physical blows, because he was almost sure even his agility and expertise with his bo staff wouldn't be enough today. However, he didn't let anyone see it.

Unlike Remy, Red was a predator, a hunter. And he smiled slowly. Remy may have been able to hide his emotions, but not the quality of his voice. "You want that, you'll have to go through me first." He puffed up his chest, as if he was a gorilla.

"That isn't exactly how it works," Remy said.

"Maybe in your world, no, but in mine, I make the rules."

"I hope that works out for you in prison, Red." If he hadn't been sick, Remy might have played Red's game a bit better; he would have put on the charm and said something to boost Red's confidence and sense of himself while at the same time gaining access to what he wanted. Today, however, his threats were weak and Red knew it. He turned away to cough, and was upset by the surprising acoustics present in the tunnels.

"Hope you brought enough handcuffs," Red said. "And have fun dragging me to the surface. Cuz I won't go quietly."

It was an old game the two of them played many times, the back and forth wasn't rehearsed so much as in actual words, but in the give and take between the men involved. A word game that sometimes resulted in something physical. This was the reason Remy didn't treat them as if they were stupid, because Red was not. He had to do what he had to in order to keep his subjects loyal, and that meant playing hard to get with a force he ultimately could not defeat. But his people didn't know that. And so the game continued. Both men were very much aware of it.

But Kurt was not. To him, it appeared Remy was losing his ground. So, he took his arrogance, and stepped right in between the two, and inserted himself into their give and take. "It's Red, right?" he asked, not giving Red a chance to answer, he continued, "My name is Kurt, and I think I can level with you here."

Remy shut his mouth, because it had fallen open, and he took a lesson from Red, crossing his arms over his chest as Kurt dug himself into a deep, deep hole.

Kurt continued as Red looked down at him with confusion. "The reason we don't want you to have MGH is because of its danger to your and your communities' health. Not to mention it's a crime to use it and sell it. When I was younger, I was in a similar situation. But instead of selling drugs, I sought refuge in a church. We can offer you that same refuge, outside of a prison cell, if you come with us."

Red got over his sense of confusion and continued to stare down his bulbous nose right into Kurt's face and surprised him by laughing a huge, rattling belly laugh. Then, dismissing him as easy at that, he turned to Remy, and said, "You've run out of tricks, have you? Low of you to think bringing your lap dog would help your cause." Still laughing, he stepped aside, and dramatically motioned them inside, "Look at whatever you please. Then get the hell out."

The ride back to the complex was quieter than the ride from it. Kurt had taken the back seat, leaving Anna Marie the front. Remy could feel Kurt's embarrassment like a thick, suffocating sweater. He felt guilty not saying anything, and he felt bad that Kurt had to learn the hard way, but he wasn't going to reassure him of anything. For one thing, Kurt's pride had enough and he would take it badly, and maybe more so, because Remy thought it was a lesson in humility that Kurt desperately had needed to learn.

Furthermore, he was angry that Kurt had made it quite obvious that he hadn't read Remy's reports, because in one of them was practically the entire description of Red's clan mentality. And for someone who prided himself on his own intelligence, Remy thought Kurt would be smart enough to read a goddamn manual before jumping into the fray. And where the hell was his partner? Anna Marie should have done something to make him shut up. Didn't they remember anything from The Academy? And now, he was beginning to second guess his own decision. Maybe he shouldn't have taken either one of them. Because what if Red had something to hide? And what if Kurt had made him angry? Yeah, Kurt could teleport, but would it be fast enough? And, after seeing how he and Anna Marie did not yet have a feel for the other one, would he leave her there? And Red could surely snap her neck easily. Vampiric skin or not, surely her skin's ability to take someone's mutant powers or life force wouldn't be fast enough. They were both under his tutelage, but he had assumed they knew more than this by now. Logan spoke highly of both of them, but Remy was having a hard time seeing it. And he didn't want to be the one to have to say anything about it.

He stewed about it most of the drive back, not a fan of doling out lectures, and finally when the entrance to The Rotunda was in sight, he said, "Both of you will turn in separate reports detailing what happened today; I would like a copy and you will also give one to Scott. It would be wise to consider the possibility that your partner might throw you under the bus to make themselves look good. It would also be wise to think about what it means to have one. I will be in D.C. for the next day or so, and that will plenty of time to get it done."

After giving them their instructions, he left them, deciding he should take his own advice. He would have to tell Clay about Dr. Bridges' email and probably owed him an apology for not telling him where he was going and why he was going. But then again, he already knew that Clay would understand.


End file.
